She started sobbing harder. Once, years ago, that sound would have turned me inside out. We had met in college. She was bright and fearless and funny, the kind of woman who filled empty space without trying. I loved her quickly and badly. Somewhere over the years, love had curdled into competition, resentment, scorekeeping. She said I cared more about winning than people. I said she cared more about being admired than responsible. By the time we divorced, all tenderness had become ammunition.
Now I heard only the woman who let our children suffer.
“I need a lawyer,” she said. “Please.”
“You have one.”
“Not like yours.”
For a moment, I almost laughed.
Even here. Even now. Still measuring life in terms of leverage.
“You should be thanking God your daughter is alive,” I said.
She went quiet.
Then, small and venomous: “You act like you’re better than me because you have money.”
“No,” I said. “I know I failed too.”
That silenced her in a different way.
I went on before she could weaponize the admission.
“I should have stepped in sooner. I should have fought harder months ago. I should have believed what I was seeing instead of what was easiest to prove in court. I will live with that.”
My hand tightened on the phone.
“But don’t confuse my guilt with your innocence. I was not the one who left them.”
I ended the call.
My hands shook for several minutes after.
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