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Eventually, I agreed to visit him, not to resume our life together, but to close a chapter.
When I entered the room where we met, I saw a man who looked older, weighed down by responsibility he had never learned to handle well.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
We spoke for a short time, both careful, both changed. When I walked out, I felt something lift from me—a release I didn’t expect. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t forgetting. It was simply the freedom of letting go.