Ik reageer niet. Niet omdat ik een hekel aan hem heb, maar omdat ik niet weet welke woorden er in zouden passen.
Ik ga terug naar het geven van Engels op de openbare middelbare school waar ik werk. Mijn leerlingen weten dat er iets is gebeurd. Tieners doen dat altijd. De meesten zijn vriendelijk genoeg om er niet naar te vragen. Ik leer mijn energie te richten op lesplannen en essays in plaats van dat moment in de balzaal keer op keer opnieuw af te spelen.
Ik houd de achternaam Hart.
People assume that means I’m still married. I don’t correct them unless I have to. The truth is simpler: every time I see that name on a piece of mail or a pay stub, I’m reminded of the price of burying what needs to be faced. It keeps me honest with myself, even when I wish I could forget.
One Year Later by the Water
A year after the wedding that didn’t become a marriage, I fly to Denver to visit Claire.
We walk through a park near her apartment, the kind with tall trees and a small lake that reflects the sky. It’s late afternoon, and the light turns the water a soft gold. We find a bench and sit in silence for a while, watching a family teach a little boy how to throw bread crumbs to ducks.
Claire looks different.
She wears her hair shorter now. There is a quiet steadiness in the way she sits, even though I can still see tiredness around her eyes. Healing is not fast, but it is moving.
“I still think about that night,” she says eventually. “The lights. The room spinning. The way Dad looked.”
“I do, too,” I say. “Sometimes I wake up and feel like I’m back in that ballroom, waiting for Lucas to say my name.”
