Chapter 22 Emma
"Hi," David said.
"Hi."
I sat down across from him. The chair scraped against the floor, too loud in the quiet between us.
"Thanks for coming," David said. "I wasn't sure you would."
"I wasn't either."
He nodded, like that made sense. Like he'd expected that answer.
"Can I get you coffee? Or…" He gestured vaguely toward the counter. "They have good pastries here. The blueberry scones are…" He stopped himself. "Sorry. You probably don't want me to narrate the menu."
"I'm okay." I had my hands in my lap, fingers laced together. Holding on. "I had coffee at home."
"Right. Of course."
Silence.
David picked up his cup, set it down without drinking. I watched him, waiting. He'd asked for this meeting. He could start.
"I don't know how to start," he said finally.
"Neither do I."
"I've been thinking about what to say for three days. I had this whole thing planned out." He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. "But now I'm sitting here and I can't remember any of it."
I didn't smile back. Didn't give him anything. Just waited.
He took a breath. Let it out slowly.
"Okay," he said. "I'm just going to say it."
I waited.
"I'm sorry." He looked directly at me. "I'm sorry for cheating on you.
For lying to you every single day for five months.
For using your work schedule to plan the affair.
For coming home and kissing you after being with her.
" His voice was steady but strained. "I'm sorry for destroying your trust. For making you question your judgment, your worth, everything about yourself.
For taking eight years of your life and throwing them away because I was selfish and weak and too much of a coward to admit I was unhappy. "
I kept my face neutral. Didn't move. Didn't react.
"You gave up med school for me," he continued. "You moved across the country. You worked part-time so I could focus on my career. You supported me through everything: bar exam stress, shitty bosses, the partnership track. And I repaid you by fucking someone else."
The bluntness of it hit me harder than I expected. I'd heard apologies before: in the lawyer's office, through divorce mediators, in the stiff formal language of legal proceedings. But this was different. This was raw. Unvarnished.
"I can't undo any of it," David said. "I can't give you back those years. I can't take away what I did to you. And I'm not asking you to forgive me. I… I don't think I'd forgive me either." He paused. "I just needed you to know that I understand what I did. What it cost you. What it destroyed."
His hands were flat on the table now, steady. Like he'd let go of something by saying it out loud.
"I've been in therapy for three years," he said.
"Working on why I made those choices. Why I prioritized ambition over everything else.
Why I couldn't just end the marriage honestly instead of blowing it up in the worst way possible.
" He looked down at his coffee. "I don't have a good answer.
There isn't one. I was selfish. I wanted the comfort of a marriage and the excitement of something new, and I didn't care who I hurt to get it. "
I still hadn't said anything. Couldn't, maybe. My throat was too tight.
"Sarah ended it the same week you kicked me out," David continued.
His voice was flat now, matter-of-fact. "Her firm pulled out of the Henderson case.
My firm demoted me. I lost the partnership.
Lost pretty much everything I'd sacrificed our marriage for.
" He looked up at me. "And I deserved all of it. "
"Yes," I said. My first word since he'd started. "You did."
He nodded. "I know."
"Is that why you're sorry?" The question came out sharper than I intended. "Because you lost everything? Because it didn't work out the way you wanted?"
"No." He didn't hesitate. "I'm sorry because I hurt you.
Because I see now—really see—what I did to you.
Not just the affair. Everything. The years of putting my career first. Making you feel like you were less important than my work.
Taking everything you gave and never appreciating it until it was gone.
" He paused. "Losing the partnership, losing Sarah, losing my job…
that was just karma. Justice. Whatever you want to call it.
But losing you..." His voice cracked slightly.
"That's the only thing I actually regret. "
I looked at him. Really looked at him. The man sitting across from me wasn't the David I'd married. Wasn't even the David who'd stood in our living room three years ago trying to minimize what he'd done.
This was someone who'd been hollowed out and rebuilt. Someone who'd done the work.
It didn't change what he'd done. Didn't erase the betrayal or the pain or the years I'd spent putting myself back together.
But it meant something.
"I don't know what to say," I admitted quietly.
"You don't have to say anything." David's hands were still flat on the table, like he was anchoring himself.
"I didn't ask you here for forgiveness or absolution or anything from you.
I just... I needed you to hear it. From me.
Not through lawyers or mediators or professional emails about cases.
" He took a shaky breath. "I needed you to know that I'm sorry.
And that I understand what I destroyed."
Silence settled between us. Not comfortable, but not hostile either. Just space.
I looked at my hands. At the table. At the other people in the coffee shop living their normal Saturday mornings, oblivious to the fact that I was sitting three feet away from the man who'd shattered my entire world.
"Do you know what the worst part was?" I said finally.
David looked up.
"It wasn't finding the messages. Or the photos.
Or even the lying." I met his eyes. "It was realizing that while I was working twelve-hour shifts, coming home exhausted, making you dinner that you wouldn't eat because you were 'working late'.
.. you were with her. And I was so stupid, so trusting, that I actually believed you. "
"You weren't stupid—"
"Yes, I was." My voice was sharper now. "I was an ICU nurse. I was trained to spot the signs when something's wrong. And I missed every single one because I trusted you. Because I thought we were building something together."
David didn't argue. Just listened.
"I gave up med school," I continued. "I know you said that already, but I don't think you understand what that meant.
I got into Penn back then. Full scholarship.
My dream school, my dream program. And I turned it down because you got that job offer in the city and we decided…
" I stopped, corrected myself. "No. I decided.
I decided that your career mattered more.
That we'd have time for me to go back to school later.
That being supportive was what a good partner did. "
"Emma—"
"I'm not done." The words came out harder than I intended, but I didn't soften them.
"Eight years. I spent eight years putting you first. Your career, your stress, your partnership track.
And I told myself it was fine, that we were a team, that eventually it would be my turn.
" I paused. "And then I found out you'd been fucking Sarah.
And I realized there was never going to be a 'my turn.
' Because I was never actually your partner. I was just... convenient."
David's face had gone pale. "That's not—"
"It is, though." I kept my voice level. "I was the supportive wife who worked part-time and kept the house running and never complained when you missed dinner.
Again. I was easy. Comfortable. And when you wanted something exciting, something new, you went and found it.
And you didn't even have the decency to leave me first."
"You're right." His voice was barely above a whisper.
"I know I'm right." I looked at him directly. "Do you know what happened after you left? After I signed the divorce papers and you were gone?"
He shook his head.
"I fell apart." The admission came easier than I expected.
"Completely. Jess slept on my couch for two weeks because I couldn't be alone.
I lost fifteen pounds because I forgot how to eat.
I'd have panic attacks in the middle of my shifts and have to lock myself in the supply closet until they passed.
" I paused. "I didn't know who I was without you.
Because I'd spent eight years building my entire identity around being your wife, supporting your dreams. And when that was gone, there was just.. . nothing."
David's eyes were wet. I didn't care.
"But then something happened," I continued.
"I started to rebuild. Not as your wife, not as half of a couple.
Just as me. And I applied to NP school. And I got in.
And I worked my ass off for two years while working full time, and I graduated, and I built a career that I'm actually proud of.
" I leaned forward slightly. "I built a life.
Without you. And it's a good life, David. Maybe even better than what we had."
"I'm glad," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. "I'm so glad you did that."
"I'm not telling you this for your approval.
" My voice was steady now. "I'm telling you because you need to understand what you took from me.
And what you didn't." I held his gaze. "You took eight years.
You took my trust. You took my marriage and my sense of security and my ability to believe in someone completely.
But you didn't take me. I'm still here. I survived you. "
A tear slid down David's cheek. He didn't wipe it away.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "God, Emma, I'm so sorry."
"I know you are." I sat back in my chair. "I can see that you are. But David, you need to understand… sorry doesn't fix this. It doesn't undo what happened. It doesn't give me back those years or make me trust you again."
"I know."
"Do you?" I studied his face. "Because I need to know that you understand I'm not here because I'm considering getting back together with you.
I'm not here because I forgive you. I'm here because I needed to say this.
To tell you what you did to me. And to hear you admit it without all the legal language or the careful phrasing. "
"I understand," David said quietly. "I don't expect anything from you. I don't deserve anything from you."
I nodded slowly. "Good. Because you don't."
We sat in silence for a moment. David wiped his face with the back of his hand, not bothering to hide it.
People at other tables were living their lives around us, ordering lattes, laughing at something on their phones, completely unaware that we were sitting here dismantling three years of wreckage.
I picked up his coffee cup without thinking, turning it in my hands the way he'd been doing when I first walked in. The ceramic was still warm. Three years of wreckage laid out between us, and somehow, we were both still here. And in a way… it didn’t feel wrong. Not right, but not wrong either.