“You never asked.”
His expression folded inward.
For seven years, I had watched him ask strangers about their careers, their ambitions, their families, and their dreams.
With me, he had accepted whatever answer required the least effort.
A clerk appeared at the end of the corridor.
“Mrs. Ellison, Judge Porter’s office needs you to sign the evidence receipt.”
I nodded.
Andrew stepped aside.
As I passed him, he spoke again.
“Mara.”
I stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were quiet.
They were also incomplete.
Sorry for what?
For the divorce?
For not asking?
For believing his parents?
For allowing an attorney to place a document in front of him and never checking whether the woman he married had signed it?
I turned my head slightly.
“If you’re sorry, don’t say it yet.”
He looked confused.
“Find out what happened first.”
Then I walked toward the clerk’s office.
