“I don’t know.”

That uncertainty hurt more than an immediate denial.

But at least he was being truthful.

He looked up.

“I never slept with her.”

I knew he believed that distinction was important.

Maybe it was.

Maybe not.

Perhaps Ethan hadn’t really been pursuing Chloe.

He’d been chasing a younger version of himself.

And Chloe had become his audience.

“I started therapy,” he said.

“When?”

“Monday.”

“Because of me?”

“No.”

He shook his head.

“Because of me.”

That mattered more than I wanted to admit.

“What do you want, Ethan?”

He considered the question.

“I want to ask you to let me come home.”

I nearly laughed.

“Ethan, I am home.”

His mouth twisted.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t think I have the right to ask.”

I waited.

“So I’m asking something else.”

“What?”

“Don’t decide because you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry anymore.”

That frightened him more.

“I know.”

He studied his ring.

“That’s why I’m scared.”

I leaned back.

“What happened that night wasn’t about one text.”

“I know.”

“If I stay because you’re terrified of losing the marriage, eventually you’ll feel trapped again.”

“I know.”

“And I’ll spend every disagreement wondering whether you’re going to hand our marriage to Chloe before you hand it to me.”

He briefly closed his eyes.

“I know.”

“So what exactly are we saving?”

He remained quiet.

Then answered:

“Maybe we can’t save it.”

Those words should have sounded like surrender.

Instead, they felt like our first shared honesty in months.

I reached across the table.

This time, I held his hand.

Not as a promise that our marriage would survive.

But because what we’d shared had been genuine.

Even if that wasn’t enough to save what remained.

“I loved being your husband,” he said quietly.

“Then why did you act like you hated it?”

“Because I forgot those weren’t the same thing.”

I squeezed his hand.

He squeezed mine.

For several minutes, we grieved something neither knew how to restore.

Eventually, Ethan asked:

“Have you decided?”

I looked at him.

I remembered Italy.

Christmas mornings.

Sunday coffee.

Our first apartment.

The penthouse.

Arguments.

Silences.

The nightclub.

His ringless hand beside Chloe.

Then divorce me.

Offer accepted.

And suddenly my decision was clear.

“Yes.”

His fingers went still against mine.

## Chapter 5: The choice I finally made

Ethan didn’t immediately ask what I’d decided.

I think he already knew.

Around us, the restaurant carried on.

Glasses clinked.

Forks scraped plates.

Someone celebrated a birthday near the bar.

Life continues, even when yours seems to be ending.

Finally, Ethan released my hand.

“You’re filing.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

His face went pale.

Not dramatically.

The color simply drained away.

He stared at me for several seconds.

Then his eyes filled.

“I thought so.”

“I’m sorry.”

He laughed weakly.

“That’s my line.”

“I’m still sorry.”