The weekend arrived, bringing with it the meeting I had been dreading.
We sat in a quiet café, the air filled with the aroma of coffee and faint chatter.
My ex-husband arrived, his expression unreadable.
“About the summer plans,” he began.
His words were measured, carefully stepping around the incident.
I listened, nodding at the appropriate moments.
But inside, I was a turmoil of emotions.
“We need to talk about what happened,” I said finally.
He hesitated, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face.
“It was… unfortunate,” he said, his voice low.
His choice of words stung, a dismissal in disguise.
I took a deep breath, choosing my next words carefully.
“Our daughter was hurt,” I said quietly.
He nodded, his eyes not quite meeting mine.
“I’ll talk to her,” he promised, but the words felt hollow.
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