“That wasn’t the whole truth,” he says. “Part of it was that staying required changing. And I didn’t know how to do that without feeling weak.”
You look at him over the rim of your mug.
“That sounds like a very male sentence,” you say.
He huffs a brief laugh. “It is.”
Then his face stills again. “I’m sorry for what I put on you. Back then. Making you the adult in every room. Making you manage my moods, his moods, the money, the peace.” He shakes his head. “I’ve had years to think about what kind of man I was. I don’t like all the answers.”
There are versions of this conversation you once fantasized about at three in the morning, when the divorce was fresh and anger was the only thing keeping you warm. In those fantasies, his apology fixed something. Restored something. Proved that suffering had a payoff.
Real life is quieter than that.
You take a sip of coffee and say, “I’m not interested in rewriting history.”
“I know.”
“But I appreciate the truth.”
He nods.
That is enough.
By week four, Diego begins calling once every Sunday.
The first call is awkward, heavily supervised, full of long pauses and small talk that sounds absurd given the crater between you. He asks about the dog next door that barks at everyone. You ask whether he is sleeping. He says the food is terrible. You almost say good just to hear him sound offended like a normal person again.
Then, at the end of the call, he says, “I wrote down everything I remembered from that night.”
Your spine stiffens.
“For group?”
“For accountability.”
