“And you sat there.”
That one hit him.
He lowered his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Years ago, that apology would’ve softened me immediately. I would’ve invited him inside, made coffee, asked if he’d eaten, trimmed down the truth until it no longer hurt him.
But I wasn’t that woman anymore.
“I believe you regret what happened,” I said. “That’s not the same thing as regretting what you did.”
His jaw tightened, but he accepted it.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“Your mother repays the business. You repay whatever spending you approved. After that, we only communicate through attorneys.”
He glanced past me into the house we once painted together.
