I loved him more than anything in the world. Without looking, I could find every scar and every wrinkle by touch. By the sound of his steps alone, I knew what mood he was in. And when our daughter was born, that feeling swelled to the scale of a supernova. Only my love repeated the fate of a dying star: it burned out fast and mercilessly, leaving behind ruins—pain, destruction, and hate. I won’t forgive.
But it turned out my ex-husband has his own plans, and for them he isn’t above dragging our daughter into it. I can see her reaching for her father. I can see that he truly loves her too. Only now we’re two different universes. And his “diagnosis,” as I see it, is obvious: it’s wrong.
Or is it not?