Chapter 12

A month later, I sat in the judge's office.

Not for a divorce hearing.

For a custody agreement.

Michael had signed the papers—not the divorce ones, but a voluntary shared custody arrangement. Full physical custody to me. Generous visitation for him. No interference from the George family.

It was Sarah who had drafted it. Her way of making amends.

The judge reviewed the documents, glanced at both of us, and stamped the approval.

Outside the courthouse, Michael and I stood on the steps in the autumn sunlight.

"I'm not signing the divorce papers," he said quietly.

"I know."

"Not because I won't respect your decision. But because I want a chance to earn you back. A real chance. Not as a George. Just as Michael."

I looked at him—really looked, for the first time in years without resentment clouding my vision.

He was thinner. Dark circles under his eyes. The bandage on his hand had been replaced by a scar.

"Olivia?" I asked.

"Charged with criminal negligence. She'll face trial next month. I've cut all contact."

"Your family?"

"Sarah has stepped down from managing my personal life. She's focusing on the business. Noah stays with you."

"And you?"

He took a breath. "I started seeing a therapist. To understand how I let it get this far. How I turned into someone who dismissed his wife's illness and chose a stranger's comfort over his family."

I hadn't expected that.

"Amanda, I know words don't fix this. But I'm going to show you. Every day. For as long as it takes."

I reached into my purse and pulled out a small paper bag.

Inside was a single mango candy. The cheap kind from the corner store near our old school.

His eyes widened.

"When we were eighteen," I said, "I told you mangoes meant goodbye."

"I remember."

"But I never told you the other part of that story. At the orphanage, before my mother married my stepfather, she used to buy me mango candies. They were the only sweets we could afford."

I held the candy between us.

"I'm allergic to mangoes, Michael. I've been allergic my whole life. Every time I ate those candies as a child, I'd get a rash and a sore throat. But I ate them anyway. Because they were from her."

His eyes were wet.

"Mangoes were never about saying goodbye. They were about loving someone even when it hurts."

I placed the candy in his palm and closed his fingers around it.

"I'm not forgiving you yet," I said. "But I'm not saying goodbye either."

Michael looked down at the candy. Then up at me. Then at Noah, who was chasing pigeons on the courthouse lawn with a bandaged knee and a huge grin.

"Thank you," he whispered.

I turned and walked toward my son.

Behind me, I heard Michael unwrap the candy.

He ate it.

Even though he was allergic too—something I'd known since we were eighteen, and he'd never told me.

Some secrets, it turns out, we both kept out of love.