“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” She pressed her hand flat against the table. “Love after leaving can sound beautiful to the person saying it. But to the person left behind, it can sound like a key arriving after the house has burned.”

I closed my eyes. “You’re right.”

When I opened them, she was crying silently. I reached across the table, then stopped halfway. She looked at my hand. After a long moment, she placed hers over it.

The contact was warm. Uncertain. Devastatingly familiar.

That afternoon, while Sophie slept, I washed dishes, folded laundry, and found the practical shape of remorse. Apologies mattered — but clean mugs and fresh towels had their own language.