“I know.”
“You aren’t.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
He nodded.
“You’re right.”
Again.
No defense.
No argument.
He handed me a card with his address and phone number.
“If you never contact me, I will understand.”
I took it.
Not as a promise.
Not even as hope.
Just a choice I could make later.
Then I boarded my flight home.
For three months, I did not contact him.
I told Rebecca everything.
Not immediately.
First, I told her about Malta.
The food.
The water.
The terrible map.
Then I gave her Michael’s letter.
My daughter cried.
Then she became angry.
Then she asked whether I wished I had never gone.
“No,” I said.
That surprised both of us.
I started therapy.
I joined a walking group.
I took a cooking class and ruined an entire tray of pastries.
I said yes to things that had nothing to do with David.
That mattered.
On the 93rd day after Malta, I wrote him a letter.
Not an email.
A real letter.
I told him I had not forgiven the way he approached me.
I told him I understood why he wanted answers.
I told him understanding was not the same as excusing.
Then I asked one question.
“If we met again, could you do it without already knowing who I am?”
His reply arrived two weeks later.
“No. But I could spend the rest of my life learning who you are instead of assuming I know.”
I read that line many times.
Then I called him.
We spoke for 20 minutes.
The next week, 40.
