One afternoon, the doorbell rang.

Tiffany stood outside in the drizzle, looking older and worn down.

“I know I have no right to be here,” she said. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

I studied her and felt no anger.

Only distance.

“Your apology is heard,” I said. “But you didn’t destroy my marriage. You exposed what was already broken.”

Then I closed the door.

Inside, my children were setting the table while Ethan pulled dinner from the oven.

On the counter sat a forwarded letter from Bradley.

I recognized his handwriting.

For a moment, I held it.

Then I dropped it unopened into the fireplace.

The paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash.

I did not need to read his ending.

I was too busy writing my own.