Harold sounded older and smaller than I remembered. He asked whether we could meet and talk. I agreed, but I made it clear that I wouldn’t be discussing money or signing anything. We met at the same restaurant where everything had fallen apart. This time, I chose the table, ordered chicken and dumplings, and refused to let the food get cold while listening to him. Harold apologized without blaming Tiffany, Dennis, or me. He admitted that he had taken my patience for weakness and my kindness for something he was entitled to receive.

I listened without interrupting, but I didn’t rush to comfort him. For decades, whenever Harold became upset, I had immediately tried to make everything better. That evening, I allowed him to sit with his own feelings. He asked whether there was still a possibility of repairing our marriage. I told him that forgiveness and reconciliation were different things. He nodded slowly, perhaps understanding that my life no longer revolved around his wishes. When the waiter brought our bill, Harold reached for it automatically. I smiled and paid for my own meal.