“I had nothing to say.” My voice was so calm that we were both surprised.
“Maybe we rushed the divorce,” he said. “Maybe we should rethink some things…”
“Max,” I interrupted, “you divorced a grieving woman because you thought she had nothing to give you. Now that you know I have something, do you suddenly feel like ‘thinking about it all’?”
His face turned pale.
“I made a mistake,” he whispered.
“You did it,” I agreed. “And now you can live with it.”
I closed the door gently. He didn’t knock again.
That day, I understood something my father knew long before me: honesty reveals itself when life strips you of everything. Some people love you for what you have to offer. Others love you for who you are when you have nothing left to offer.
My father was the latter. Max proved himself to be the former.
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