Harrison closed his eyes in relief, but I warned him not to mistake it for forgiveness. “The house isn’t for sale today. That’s all,” I said.
Six months later, I was working part time at an interior design studio in Pasadena. I had my own accounts and my own keys in every sense of the word.
Harrison was still in therapy and had learned that asking for forgiveness means changing before losing someone. Tiffany disappeared from our decisions, and although I didn’t sell the house, Harrison understood that I never lacked power.
THE END.
