“Sorry. Finish what you were saying.”
She looked surprised.
Then she continued.
I apologized.
Not once.
Several times.
But Claire didn’t put her ring back on.
“I need more than apologies,” she said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked at her bare finger.
“I’m beginning to.”
The following morning, Claire told me she’d spoken to Emily.
My sister had agreed to receive a letter.
I sat at the kitchen table for almost an hour before writing anything.
Then I wrote about the day she’d called me crying.
I told her I remembered what I’d said.
That I was wrong.
That she had needed protection, and I’d given her advice about preserving her marriage instead.
I didn’t ask her to forgive me.
I didn’t ask her to call.
I just told her I was sorry.
Claire mailed the letter.
Three weeks passed.
Then one evening, my phone rang.
An unfamiliar number.
