Not to be right, but to be real.
I’ve read your words more than once. Not to argue, but to understand. I won’t deny your pain. I won’t rewrite your memories. But I will speak from mine—not to be right, but to be real. You say I played the victim. I say I was surviving. You say I didn’t care. I say I was drowning in silence, trying not to make it worse. I never meant to make you feel alone. But I see now that my distance became its own kind of wound. I was trying to hold things together in my own way—quietly, methodically, maybe too invisibly. And in doing so, I failed to show up in the ways you needed most. I didn’t know how to fix what was breaking between us. I didn’t know how to hold your grief while carrying mine. But I never stopped caring. Even when I was quiet. Even when I was wrong. You say God knows the truth. I believe that. And I believe our children deserve a legacy of truth—not accusation, not silence, but clarity. So this is me, not defending, not deflecting—just standing still. I hear you. I see the pain behind your words. And I will carry my part of it with honesty.