The waitress came by with more coffee, and we both wiped our eyes, probably looking like two crazy people crying over breakfast in a dingy diner. But I didn’t care who saw us or what they thought.
After 15 years of holding back tears, of grieving in private, of pretending to be stronger than I felt, it was a relief to cry openly.
“Blaine,” I said when I could speak again, “we can’t get those years back. 15 years of marriage, 15 years of growing old together, 15 years of small moments and shared experiences. Richard stole all of that from us, and it’s gone forever.”
He nodded, understanding the weight of what I was saying. “But we can have whatever time is left. We can choose to move forward together, to build something new from what Richard tried to destroy.”
Blaine squeezed my hand tighter. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want my husband back. Not just as someone to survive with or plot revenge against Richard with, but as my partner, my companion, my love. I want to try to reclaim what we had, even if we can’t reclaim the time we lost.”
