I felt tears sting my eyes. All those years, I had imagined something cruel. Instead, the truth was almost painfully tender.
“Then why did you refuse to tell me?” I asked.
He reached for my hand, but I pulled it back.
“Because you should have heard it from me,” I said. “Not after years of being laughed at, wondering what everyone knew except me.”
His face crumpled.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I believed he was sorry. But I also knew that love wasn’t just about sweet words. It was about making sure the person you loved never felt like the last one invited into their own story.
That night, he drove us home in silence.
Before bed, he held me close and told me what he should have said years ago.
“You were never a joke to me. You were the woman I fell in love with.”
I rested my head against his chest, still hurt, but finally understanding.
