That hit me harder than any of the letters ever could have. He knew. He had known the whole time. He didn’t care about the money or the house or the mess of the separation.

He cared that I had lied to him about my own heart. I walked into the room, and for the first time, I felt the air shift.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I said it to the floor, to the walls, to the man who was finally looking me in the eye. “I was terrified of being alone.”

He didn’t hug me. He didn’t offer to make coffee. He just pulled out the chair at the kitchen table and sat down. He tapped his finger on the wood, a nervous habit he had picked up from my own mother.

“Sit down,” he said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

I pulled out the chair. I didn’t look at the stack of letters anymore. I didn’t look at the clock on his wall. I just sat there, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, feeling the weight finally leave my shoulders. The letters were finished. The silence was over.