I remembered how quickly he became angry whenever I questioned his decisions.
I’d explained away those moments because I loved him.
But I couldn’t explain away the letters.
Daniel had been capable of kindness and cruelty, sometimes toward the same people.
His death didn’t erase what he’d done.
And acknowledging his mistakes didn’t mean I’d stopped loving him.
The following afternoon, Sophie returned.
I’d called her that morning and asked whether we could talk again.
She looked nervous when I opened the door.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”
“I almost didn’t call,” I admitted.
Her expression fell.
“Not because I blame you. Because I’m ashamed of how much I still want to defend him.”
Sophie nodded.
“I understand.”
We sat in the kitchen, where we’d once shared countless ordinary conversations.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Linda, you didn’t know.”
“But I accepted his explanation. I never heard yours.”
