I did.

I understand now that every flower, every late-night conversation about my childhood, every tender touch had been architecture — calculated and deliberate.

He had not fallen in love with me.

He had studied me.

He had built himself into the exact shape of my deepest need, so that I would open the door.

This is the part that took me longest to forgive myself for, and I want to be honest about it, because I think there are other women who need to hear it named.