“You really hated me that much?” “I never hated you. I wanted to. I tried to, but I couldn’t.” “You kept a child from me. Our son! How could you?” And there it is. The question he posed to me all those years ago, scribbled on the title page of Regretting Belle. Only now it means something different, something unfathomably worse. “You broke my heart,” I reply raggedly, knowing it isn’t enough, knowing there will never be enough words to fix this. “When you left, and then when the story appeared in the Review, I couldn’t believe you’d actually done it.” “I hadn’t.” “I didn’t know that then. How
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he had been wronged, I'll give him that for sure
