I held up a hand.
“Not now.”
He stopped.
“I cannot carry your guilt tonight.”
He nodded.
Fair.
I continued:
“You want to know why I stopped?”
“Yes.”
“Because every envelope felt like mailing part of myself into a grave.”
His face tightened.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know that now.”
“That does not undo what it felt like then.”
He looked at the letters.
“What did she tell you?”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“That you wanted no contact.”
He closed his eyes.
“She told me you wanted no contact.”
“Convenient.”
“I should’ve checked.”
“Yes.”
“I should’ve come.”
“Yes.”
“I should’ve called lab.”
“Yes.”
Every yes hurt him.
I let them.
Not cruelly.
Truth is not cruelty because it causes pain.
He whispered:
“Do you hate me?”
I thought.
“No.”
He looked surprised.
“I hated you for a while.”
“Then I had child to raise.”
“Hate takes time.”
He almost smiled through tears.
That was too familiar.
I hated that too.
The bride entered.
She had been crying.
She looked at him.
“I’m staying at hotel tonight.”
He nodded.
“I understand.”
“I need space.”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t decided anything.”
“Yes.”
His mother appeared outside conference-room doors with an attorney.
Security stopped her.
She stared at us through glass.
My former husband looked.
Then walked to door.
Opened it.
His mother said:
“We need to talk privately.”
He answered:
“No.”
Her face fell.
“Please.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand legal implications.”
“I understand enough.”
She reached toward him.
He stepped back.
She froze.
He said:
“You do not contact my son.”
I felt my whole body tighten.
Not our son.
My son.
He noticed.
Corrected immediately.
“Our son.”
That mattered.
“You do not contact his mother.”
“You do not destroy anything.”
“You do not enter my home.”
“You do not speak to bride unless she contacts you.”
His mother’s eyes filled.
“You’re cutting me off.”
“I’m creating boundaries.”
“You’re punishing me.”
“Maybe it feels the same because you never let me have any.”
She shook her head.
“I did this for you.”