Then I answered.
He didn’t greet me.
“What did you tell her?” he demanded.
I leaned against the wall, crossing one foot over the other, calm in a way that would have terrified the version of me from a year ago.
“The truth,” I said.
“You had no right—”
I almost laughed.
“No right?” I repeated softly. “You signed my name on payments I never approved. You hid debt in accounts tied to our marriage. You let your mother treat my income like a standing order. And you think I have no right to say anything?”
He exhaled sharply, like he was trying to regain control of a conversation that had already slipped out of his hands.
“It’s not like that,” he said.
It was always that sentence.
Always the same attempt to reshape reality into something softer, something negotiable.
“It is exactly like that,” I replied.
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