Page 45 of Letting Go

I pull into the driveway, still wearing my war paint of mascara streaks and dried grief from lunch, and there he is.

Mike.

Parked as if he owns the place. As if nothing’s happened. Like our marriage isn’t currently a crime scene.

He’s leaning on his stupid car, using it as a prop in his redemption arc. As soon as I step out, he straightens, all nervous smiles and fake softness.

“Hey,” he says, as though that word can undo the wreckage he made.

I don’t say anything. I don’t even look at him. I just walk straight to the door. Let him follow, pitiful and quiet, expecting forgiveness he doesn’t deserve.

He’s carrying the divorce papers.

Of course he is.

“I got these,” he says, holding them out like I’ve never seen paperwork before. “Are you serious with this?”

I turn around slowly, hand on the doorknob, my patience threadbare.

“You thought I wasn’t serious?” I ask. Calm. Cold. Dangerous.

He flinches like I slapped him, which is ironic considering he’s the one who did the damage.

“I just-” He exhales, trying for earnest. “Can we talk? Just talk. Please. You don’t have to do this. I made a mistake.”

A mistake.

That word again. As if he used the wrong fork at dinner. As if he misread a calendar instead of sleeping with my sister.

I cross my arms. The front door is behind me, the biggest mistake of my life, in front.

“No, Mike. You didn’t make a mistake. You made a choice.”

He tries to interrupt, but I hold up a hand.

“I’m not doing this with you. You don’t get to show up like you forgot your keys and expect a conversation. This, us, it’s done.”

His face crumples in that boyish way that used to crack my resolve. Back when I didn’t know better. Back when I thought love could fix everything.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says.

I blink. Once. Twice.

“You didn’t mean to screw my sister?”

“I-” He stops. Stammers. “I was in a bad place. We were in a bad place.”

And there it is. The Great Deflection. As if our rough patch was some kind of hall pass for betrayal.

“Don’t,” I say, low and firm. “Don’t you dare put this on us. You burned this down. Alone. On purpose.”

He looks desperate now. Realizing the gravity of what he’s lost. The house. The future. Me.

The last thing I need is Mrs. Kowalski across the street watching this from behind her curtains with a glass of Chardonnay and a full tank of judgment. Or worse, pity.

So, I open the door wider.

“Get inside,” I snap. “Since clearly you’re going to make a scene.”

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