“Bron—”
“You made a decision about my life without even asking me.”
“I made a decision about my child.”
Our eyes lock.
For a moment the hallway feels smaller.
“You think I would’ve walked away,” I say quietly.
“No.”
The answer surprises me.
“Then what?”
She takes a slow breath.
“I think you would’ve tried.”
“Tried?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s bad?”
“You were reckless,” she says.
The word lands with a dull thud in my chest.
“You lived like consequences were optional.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate.”
I open my mouth to argue.
Then close it again.
Because the worst part about criticism is when the person delivering it isn’t wrong.
“You jumped into danger for fun,” she continues. “You made impulsive decisions constantly. Half the time I felt like I was dating a man who thought gravity was a suggestion.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It was the man I knew.”
The quiet certainty in her voice strips away the last of my defensiveness.
I lean back against the wall and stare at the ceiling.
“So you decided I’d be a terrible father.”
“I decided Jesse deserved stability.”
“And I couldn’t give him that.”
