He had told himself for decades that Lucy had been unreasonable. That she’d wanted too much, too fast. But now he saw it clearly—she hadn’t asked him to be perfect. Just present. And instead of stepping up, he had packed a bag and fled the fire she stayed in to fight.
He saw her not as a villain, but a warrior. Not as the cause of his misery, but the reason his children had joy in their lives. She had done it—without money, without a partner, without rest. He had called it madness. In reality, it had been love. Real, staggering love.