One hot chocolate.
The date was from last winter.
It was such a small thing.
On the back, in Warren’s handwriting, were three words.
Mallory likes cinnamon.
I sat on the floor holding it.
It was such a small thing, yet it showed so much of his character.
He had been learning all about her, trying to make up for his past mistakes.
I wasn’t angry that he had learned to love her.
Remembering what she drank.
Helping with furniture.
Looking at school pictures.
Trying to become her father while coming home to me and saying nothing about how difficult this must have been.
I wasn’t angry that he had learned to love her.
I was angry that my husband had tried to reconcile a part of himself entirely without me.
For a long time, I stared at Mallory’s number.
He could have told me.
I might have been shocked and maybe a little hurt, but he never even gave me the chance to share this with him.
My phone was beside me.
For a long time, I stared at Mallory’s number.
The first time I agreed to meet her, I had done it because I assumed she wanted to thank me.
Now I knew Warren had arranged far more than I understood.
Would you like to have coffee again next week?
