"I don't think I can forgive you for this."
Ronin was silent, staring at her intently like he had expected this.
"I was so stupid," she cried out, voice trembling with fury and grief. "So stupid to ignore that box—that damn box of letters, those photographs of her. Do you know what it did to me, Ronin? Every time it moved, even just a few inches, it felt like it was pinching off pieces of my soul. Like it was taking me apart, bit by bit. And I told myself I could live with it. That I could pretend it didn't matter. But it mattered, Ronin. It just made me care less and less."
Her hands shook as she pressed them to her chest. "I thought maybe you'd see me, that you'd notice how much pain I've been in. That you'd care. But all that mattered to you was that this house ran like clockwork, that nothing disturbed your perfect little routine. And I...I swallowed it, again and again."
Ronin shifted as if to speak, but she cut him off with a furious laugh that dissolved into tears. "I told myself at least you'd be faithful—that I have that at least. But no, even that was too much. Forget faithful; how about honest? How about, 'Sage, maybe we've grown apart, maybe we should let go'? That would have been better than this. This slow bleeding of me until there's nothing left."
Her voice cracked, and she took a ragged breath. "And the worst, Ronin...the worst isn't the lies, isn't even Mia. It's that you dragged David into this. You poisoned my relationship with myson. And that..." she broke off, shaking her head as tears poured freely, "that was the very last straw."
"This situation is your fault," she spat, her voice shaking with fury. "You brought her into our lives; you opened the door to that kind of madness. And now our son is paying the price."
Ronin flinched, his face pale, eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless nights. "Sage—"
"No. Don't 'Sage' me. I had to watch my child walk into a police station tonight because of your choices. How does that feel?"
His mouth worked, but nothing came out. Then, as though the fight had drained straight out of him, he sank onto the edge of the chair. His hands covered his face, shoulders shaking.
"I know," he whispered, voice muffled. "I know it's my fault. I've ruined everything. I can't take it back, Sage. God, I wish I could. I wish I could give you back the years. I'm sorry."
The rawness of it cut through her anger. She stared at him—this man who looked thinner, older, nothing like the proud partner she'd once clung to, even though, in her heart of hearts, she knew she should have let go a long time ago. His regret wasn't slick or defensive tonight; it was naked. It was crushing him.
"Dad..."
David's voice cut through. Neither had noticed him come in. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, shoulders hunched, eyes darting between them. He took a step forward, then another. "I'm just glad it's...it's done. That you both did something about it. I didn't know what to do, but now..." He exhaled, the tension in his frame easing. "Now I feel better."
Sage's heart felt like it would explode. So many things could have gone wrong. She pulled him into her arms, holding on until he gave a small laugh and wriggled free.
Her anger still burned, but the edges had dulled. For the first time, she saw the path clearly—if she wanted to move forward,truly forward, she would have to forgive Ronin. Not for him, but for herself. To stop being chained to his mistakes.
Later, after David had gone to bed, she sat down opposite him, her voice quieter. "I don't know what to do with all this rage I have inside me. I have been trying to keep it in, but I need to forgive you, Ronin. I need to forgive you because I need to move on."
He looked up, eyes rimmed with red, and gave the smallest of nods.
And for that night, at least, the storm in their house finally eased.
Chapter 37
The hospice was quieter than usual, the hallways hushed except for the faint murmur of voices from another room. Sage pushed Callie's door open gently, balancing a jug of water and her usual nervous smile.
Callie's face brightened. "My favourite visitor."
Sage set the jug down and pulled up a chair. "How are you today?"
"Still dying," Callie said dryly, her lips twitching. "But other than that, no complaints."
Sage shook her head, but the warmth behind the words reached her.
They talked about what she did today—Callie's son had called, the nurses had adjusted her meds again. Then, as so often happened, the conversation slipped into deeper waters.
"My ex-husband came by yesterday," Callie said, her voice soft, eyes drifting to the window. "We spoke on the phone first. He wished things were different. And now he sits there, bunged down by regrets. A lousy man when I married him, a lousy man when I left him. But still...I forgave him."
Sage frowned, shifting in her seat. "How?"
Callie coughed, a harsh rattle in her chest. Sage leaned forward, steadying her with a sip of water.
"You need to remember that forgiveness does not mean you forget he was an arsehole or that you let him back into your life. It just means you find an easier way to coexist because you share a son," Callie rasped once she caught her breath. "You don't forgive him for his sake. I did it for me. For my son. Because, Sage, holding on to anger takes a hell of a lot of energy. And that's energy you could use for something else...something that makes you lighter."
