He had been given the choice, over and over, in the waiting room, at the sliding doors, in the long silence after, on the phone the next afternoon, and every single time, cleanly and freely, he had chosen himself.

So in the end I stopped waiting for him to choose us, and I made the only choice that was ever really left to me.

I chose Hazel.

I chose myself.

And standing there in that quiet borrowed room with my daughter’s small hand curled around my finger, out of danger and fast asleep, I knew, with a certainty that has never once wavered since, that it was the truest choice I had ever made.

In the months that followed, the divorce moved forward through the proper channels, lawyers and filings and the slow grinding machinery of the law, and I let it, without drama, because I no longer needed anything from Liam except to be legally free of him.