I hadn’t seen or heard from Randy in almost two months—until I saw him at church Sunday morning. His kids were with his ex-wife for the weekend. He stood near the back, hands in his pockets, looking like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or quietly slip out. We gave each other an awkward hug—the kind that carries history but not warmth. Cordial, but tense. He handed me an envelope.
As we stepped apart, I caught the pastor and his wife exchanging a look. Just a glance, a small tilt of the head—but it said exactly what it needed to say: Y’all need us to step in, or are y’all okay? I shook my head slightly. "We were okay enough - I don’t need a rescue" I tried to convey.
Just as Randy turned to go, Pastor James and his wife Lorna made their way over.
"Hey," James said, his voice calm but kind.
Lorna placed a gentle hand on my forearm. "You alright, hon?"
I nodded, though I felt the tightness rising in my chest. "Didn’t expect to see him today. He gave me a letter."
Lorna’s expression softened with concern. "We saw the hug. That wasn’t easy."
"It wasn’t," I admitted. "We haven’t spoken since everything happened. He didn’t say anything—just handed me this and left."
James nodded slowly. "If you ever need to talk, vent, or just sit in silence—we’re here."
"Thank you," I said. It meant more than they knew.
Lorna gave my hand a soft squeeze. "You had every right to set boundaries. He didn’t respect them, and that’s on him."
"I just needed him to recognize that," I said quietly.
They didn’t push. Just gave me space, kindness, and walked back toward the sanctuary.
I drove home with the windows down, the spring air pouring through like a balm. I skipped lunch. Didn’t change out of my church clothes. I went straight to the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled the letter from my purse.
My fingers trembled slightly as I unfolded the paper. Randy’s handwriting was still overly neat—tight loops and careful strokes that tried too hard to look composed. I could already feel a pit forming in my stomach.
Deppgrl,
There’s no excuse for what I did.
I was wrong—deeply wrong—to bring my kids into your space without asking. I disrespected your home, your time, and the boundaries we’d agreed on. I treated your hospitality like an afterthought instead of a gift. I turned our kid-free dates into family drop-ins without a word, and that was selfish and inconsiderate.
You had every right to be upset. I didn’t ask. I didn’t communicate. I bulldozed forward like your consent didn’t matter. That wasn’t just careless—it was disrespectful.
When things got tense, I bailed. I didn’t try to make it right. I didn’t even ask how you felt. I just disappeared. That wasn’t fair to you, and I regret it more than I can say.
This letter isn’t meant to win anything back. I know you’ve moved forward, and I respect that. I’m writing this because you deserved a real apology, and it took me too long to give it.
I’m sorry.
Truly,
—Randy
I read it once. Then again.
The second time, I let the stillness settle over me. There was no background noise, no distractions—just the words and the quiet weight of them. He had finally owned it. No deflection. No excuses. No pretending he hadn’t hurt me.
He was finally facing the damage he’d caused.
Still, I didn’t know what to do with it. Not yet. Because now I was with Vince. Vince, who had weathered my grief and my joy, who took care of me when I couldn’t stand, who made love to me like the world was ending and held me like he wanted it to last forever.
And yet Randy, with all his guilt and careful handwriting, was nudging his way back into my world. Slowly. Quietly. Regret in one hand and apology in the other.
I folded the letter, walked into the living room, threw the letter into the fireplace and lit the wood. Watched the paper catch, curl, and blacken. The flames took their time. So did I.
I wasn’t keeping it. I was done holding on to things that made me question myself.
I stood there, watching until the last ember went out. Then I walked away—lighter, but still uncertain.
One exhale at a time.
No comments:
Post a Comment