“I really did hate you sometimes,” she said.
“I know.”
She flinched at my honesty.
I looked at the dark garden ahead of us.
“I hated you too.”
She turned to me.
I had never said it before.
I had softened it for years. I had called it frustration, disappointment, exhaustion. But hatred had been there, sitting in the corner of my heart like an unwanted guest.
Paige’s eyes filled again.
“I deserved that.”
“Sometimes,” I said. “But I don’t want to live there anymore.”
She nodded slowly.
“I don’t know how to be different.”
“Me neither.”
That surprised her.
I smiled faintly. “You think I know how to forgive you because I did one dramatic thing in a church? Paige, I’m still angry.”
Her lips parted.
“I’m angry you made me dread my own wedding. I’m angry you left me alone with Mom when she was sick. I’m angry you turned every milestone into a competition. I’m angry that even today, some part of me was waiting for you to hurt me.”
