CUTTING THE CORD: my ex-husband regret

eaning. The man was a master of manipulation, that much was clear, but his intentions remained a mystery, one that gnawed at me relentlessly. I had barely closed my eyes when a sharp knock echoed t

attered throughout. His gaze finally settled on me, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of pride in his eyes before it was replaced by something heavier, something more complicated. "You've done well for yourself," he said, his voice gruff. "This place... it suits you." "Thanks," I replied, my tone clipped. The tension between us was palpable, a chasm that neither of us knew how to bridge. I led him to the living room, where we sat across from each other, the coffee table a barrier between us. The silence stretched on, both of us unsure of how to start the conversation that had been ten years in the making. "What are you doing here, Dad?" I finally asked, my voice sharper than I intended. He winced at the question, his hands clasping together as if to steady himself. "I know I'm the last person you expected to see, and I don't blame you for that. I wasn't there when you needed me most, and for that, I'm truly sorry." His apology hung in the air, but I wasn't ready to accept it. Not yet. "You didn't answer my question." He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, the years of regret evident in his every movement. "I came because... because I have something to tell you, something important. It's about your mother." The mention of my mother was like a punch to the gut. My heart skipped a beat, the old wounds of her passing reopening with a searing pain. "What about her?" His eyes met mine, and for the first time since he walked in, I saw a flicker of fear in them. "Emily, your mother's death... it wasn't what we thought it was." I felt the ground shift beneath me, the world tilting on its axis. "What are you talking about? She died in a car accident." He shook his head slowly, his expression grim. "No, sweetheart. It wasn't an accident. Your mother was murdered." The word hung in the air like a death knell, cold and unforgiving. My mind couldn't process it, couldn't reconcile the idea with the woman who had raised me, who had been my rock after my father left. But the look in his eyes told me that he was telling the truth, or at least what he believed to be the truth. "Murdered?" The word slipped out, barely a whisper, as if saying it out loud would make it real. He nodded, his hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the table. "I didn't know until recently, Emily. I swear. But when I found out... I knew I had to come back, had to tell you." My mind raced, trying to make sense of the revelation, to piece together a puzzle that had been incomplete for so long. "Why now? Why after all these years?" His gaze dropped, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him. "Because I've been running, Emily. I've been running from the truth, from my own mistakes. But I can't run anymore. You deserve to know what really happe