“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were eight months pregnant, exhausted, and finally sleeping more than four hours a night.”
“Marisol.”
“I told him if he truly wanted to make things right, he could begin by respecting your peace.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“You could have told me.”
“Yes.”
There was no defensiveness in her voice.
“I should have.”
That disarmed me.
“I thought I was protecting you,” she continued. “But maybe I was making a decision that belonged to you.”
I looked at the letter.
“Everyone seems to have done a lot of that.”
“I’m sorry.”
I believed her.
“I know.”
“Are you going to see him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“You don’t have to know tonight.”
After we hung up, I sat in the dim hospital room listening to Ethan breathe.
At nine-fifteen, I finally opened the envelope.
The letter was four pages long.
