That was when I finally understood everything.
Technically, he was right.
He had never said:
“I will divorce her on this exact date.”
He had not promised me an apartment.
He had not bought me a ring.
He had never named a day.
He had simply created the feeling that a future was waiting for us.
Soon.
When the children are older.
Not now.
Be patient.
Just enough hope to keep me waiting.
“Leave,” I said.
“Claire, don’t get carried away. Let’s talk calmly.”
“We’ve been talking for three years. That’s enough for me.”
“You’re emotional right now.”
“Maybe I am.”
I stood up.
“But I’m not changing my decision. Leave. And never come here again.”
For several more minutes, he tried to explain himself.
Then he realized there was no point.
He stood.
Put on his coat.
And left.
The flowers remained on the table.
So did the wine.
I threw the bouquet into the trash immediately.
The bottle went in after it.
It was probably childish.
A gesture made out of anger.
Then I sat on the floor beside the kitchen cabinet and cried.
But I was not crying only for Daniel.
I was crying for myself.
For the twenty-six-year-old girl who had believed him.
For the three years.
For every Tuesday and Thursday.
For all the evenings that could have belonged entirely to me.
For the life I might have had with someone who did not have to leave at ten.
Daniel called.
The next day.
Two days later.
A week afterward.
He sent messages.
“Claire, I need you.”
“Let’s talk.”
“I can’t live without you.”
At first I read them.
Then I stopped.
I never answered even once.
After a month, I blocked his number.
I realized that every new notification was a tiny hook.
And I did not want to be caught by it again someday.
I spoke to Sophie only after two months.
I went to her apartment.
We sat in the kitchen.
And I told her everything.
The escalator.
His hand on his wife’s shoulder.
His daughter.
The scarf.
The laughter.
Sophie listened without interrupting.
She never said, “I warned you.”
She never said, “You brought this on yourself.”
She simply listened and refilled my tea.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” I asked.
“What?”
“It isn’t even that he lied.”
Sophie waited.
“The worst part is that I spent three years hating a woman I didn’t know at all.”
I looked down into my cup.
“I invented her. I turned her into someone gray, boring, and cold, wearing an old robe and slippers. I needed to reduce her to a cardboard figure, because then I didn’t have to feel guilty.”
Sophie said nothing.
“She’s alive,” I whispered. “Do you understand? She’s real.”
I drew a deep breath.
“She’s me ten years from now.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s just another woman. She loves her husband. She waits for him to come home. She texts him, ‘Buy milk. Love you.’ She probably thinks he’s delayed by a meeting. Traffic. An urgent problem at work.”
I smiled faintly, though there was nothing funny about it.
“And while she believes that, her husband is coming to me.”
Sophie lowered her eyes.
“She trusts him,” I continued. “Exactly as I trusted him when he told me I was special.”
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then Sophie said:
“You’re not to blame.”
I shook my head.
“Falling in love probably isn’t a crime. But I am guilty of something else.”
“Of what?”
“For spending three years deliberately refusing to think.”
I looked at my friend.
“I didn’t want to think about her. Or the children. Or what was happening in their home while he sat in mine. It was easier to focus only on my own feelings. On being ‘special.’ On how painful it was to wait.”
I wiped my eyes.
“That was selfish too. Just beautifully packaged. Flowers, wine, declarations, and expensive cologne. Still selfish.”
“He’s at least as guilty as you are.”
“Of course.”
I nodded.
“But he is responsible for what he did.”
Then I added:
“And I am responsible for what I did.”