I didn’t know if she was talking about the plate or our marriage.
Later, near Waterfront Park, I asked her: “Tell me what you need from me.”
“Don’t use the kids to keep me here.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t apologize just because you are afraid.”
“I am afraid,” I admitted.
“But I also feel ashamed.”
Sarah looked at me for a long time.
“Shame doesn’t fix anything, David.”
That night I understood something brutal.
Asking for forgiveness was easy.
Changing without expecting a reward was the hard part.
So I started to change.
I took the kids to school.
I went to therapy.
I blocked old contacts.
I stopped lying.
Sarah didn’t applaud.
She had no reason to do so.
Weeks later, she asked me to accompany her to Summerville.
I thought it meant hope.
But we went to Andrew’s office.
The divorce papers covered the desk.
Joint custody.
Child support.
Division of assets.
Every word felt like another wound.
“But I am changing,” I told her.
“I know,” Sarah replied.
“But I don’t want to come back just to find out if it’s true.”
So I signed.
Nine years reduced to a single signature.
Outside, the rain pounded Charleston.
Sarah slipped on the wet sidewalk.
I caught her by the arm.
For a second, we were entirely too close.
Then she pulled away.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Without promises.
Without love.
Only distance.
Two weeks later, everything got worse.
It was my daughter’s birthday.
Sarah had prepared pot roast, macaroni and cheese, and sweet tea.
My mother brought the cake.
My sister brought balloons.
