Page 60 of October
"I don't expect forgiveness," he continued, eyes locked on mine, and for once, I could see the honesty behind them. "I know I don't have the right to ask for it—not after everything. It's a sad thing, isn't it? To finally wake up and realize how much damage you've done... only to find it's far too late."
He glanced down for a moment, swallowed hard.
"I wish I could say it was just this past year, just that betrayal, but we both know better. It was years, October. Years of making you feel small, unheard. Years of standing beside you without really standingwithyou. And then I shattered what little trust remained."
"I will never get those years back," he said. "I know that. And I will never getyouback the way I had you. But if all I can donow is make space for your healing, build something for you, be better for the kids—even if it's from a distance—I'll do it. I swear I'll do it."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a thick envelope, held it with both hands as though it might shatter.
"So... here it is."
The air shifted, like something sacred was about to pass between us.
He handed me the papers. My heart knew what they were before my eyes even read the words.
"What are these?" I asked, though my voice barely made it past my throat. It cracked like a branch splitting under weight.
"Divorce papers," he said, steady but soft. "Signed by me. All that's missing is your signature."
For a moment, everything around us seemed to go silent, like the world paused to let the words settle in my chest. Then he added, quickly, almost too quickly…
"I don't want that." His voice wavered, "But I know," he continued, " that you do. And if it is still what you want, I won't fight you. I won't beg or manipulate or make it harder than it already is. You've been through enough."
He looked down, swallowing hard. "So... I'm giving you that choice. Fully. Freely."
I stared at the papers in my hands like they were burning. "Okay... what's the rest of it?" I asked, gesturing toward the folder.
He opened it, carefully sliding out another set of papers.
"These," he said, "are half of my shares in the company. They're in your name now."
"What?" I said, stunned.
"The other half," he continued, "are for the kids. Each will get their portion when they turn 22. I've already set it up. Legal and final. No strings."
I stared at him, the documents still in my hands, their weight suddenly heavier than paper should feel. It wasn't just legal language or numbers, this was something else. A shift. A quiet reckoning. My voice barely found its way out.
"Why are you doing this?"
He looked up at me, and for once, he didn't flinch. His voice came steady, but quiet. "Because you supported me. Because I was too proud, too blind, honestly, to admit how much of what I built was only possible because of you."
He took a step closer, but not too close. Just enough for his voice to drop lower, more intimate, more honest.
"You were the one who held everything together. The house, the kids, me. I was running toward success like it was some kind of finish line, and you were the one picking up everything I dropped along the way. You sacrificed your time, your energy, your peace. Your dreams."
I swallowed hard. The words hit deeper than I expected. Not because they were new—but because they were finally spoken out loud. He went on, his voice thickening.
"You gave up the career you wanted. Gave up your degree. Your late nights turned into sleepless nights with crying babies and grocery lists and taking care of everyone but yourself. And the worst part? I let you. I let you do it, and I told myself that was just how things worked."
He looked at me, really looked, like he was trying to memorize the truth he'd ignored for years.
"I was too busy working. Too busy proving something to a man who never even gave me the time of day, and all the while, you were there, focusing on our family, loving our children, lovingme, without asking for anything back."
My throat clenched. I hadn't cried yet, not really, but I felt it building again. The ache in my chest, the grief for all the years I'd silently carried what he was only now beginning to see.
"It's what you earned. It'syours, whether you stay or walk away. You've already paid for it a hundred times over. I just... finally woke up to the debt."
I looked down at the envelope, then back at him. My fingers trembled as I clutched the papers, and for a moment, I didn't know what to say. He shifted on his feet, running a hand through his hair as if trying to pull the words straight from his scalp. And then he said it—quietly at first, but clearly:
