I said it and I meant it, and I was right. Still, I wish I could take it back, because there’s no way I can make it up to her, no way I can ever make her feel better. The deepness of the betrayal would be felt for years to come. She had tried to deny her own gut feelings. She tried to deny her heart.
Now, here we were.
She had packed up and left the house quicker than she thought possible. He tried to stop her. He had tried to explain. He tried to make her think it was all in her head.
She knew better.
She would never go back after she found the texts, the e-mails, the hand written notes. The cards were in an old gym bag he thought he could hide. He never thought she would snoop around. He never thought she would break away from his “charms” and control long enough to come to her senses and leave him.
Now he is trying to make things right in between spurts of yelling and threats about how she would never find happiness without him.
There is no making it right.
There just is the look on her face. The shaking of her hands. The bags on the floor. The heartbreak that seems to fill a room with the lingering energy.
There is no taking it back, but there is moving forward.
There is starting over.