The thing was freedom.

“I’m just no longer afraid,” I told him, “that losing access to you means losing access to my own life.” And this time, he did not step into my path, or reach for the last word.

He let me go.

I still think, sometimes, about that Wednesday in the old dining room.

I do not dwell on Cynthia’s emerald dress, or Brandon’s arm around her waist.

What I remember is the look on his face while he waited for my reaction — the expectant, certain look of a man about to watch the frightened, dependent woman he had spent months describing to everyone finally appear on cue.