“I know.”
“I believe you.”
That almost hurt more than if she hadn’t.
“But it doesn’t change this,” she said.
“No.”
The rain fell beyond the awning.
“I used to think if you understood how sorry I was, that would fix something.”
“Maybe it fixed something in you.”
“Is that enough?”
“It has to be.”
Her sister’s car pulled toward the curb.
Before Corinne stepped away, I said, “Do you hate me?”
“No.”
I hadn’t expected that.
“Why not?”
She considered the question.
“Because hating you would still require organizing too much of my life around you.”
Small.
Sad.
Free.
“I don’t want to do that anymore.”
She got into the car.
A week later, while unpacking the last box from my old office, I found the hospital photograph.
Corinne in the bed.
Owen against her chest.
The empty chair beside them.
For months, I watched that photograph as evidence of what I missed.
