I arrived early and found myself rehearsing an apology I had already made, as if the right arrangement of words might finally change the past.

“I want to know why you never told me you didn’t want children,” she said before I could begin.

I looked down at my cup.

“I was afraid you’d leave.”

She waited.

“My father used to say that a successful man never lets anyone gain leverage over him.

I absorbed that.

A child seemed like a responsibility I couldn’t reverse.