He didn't flinch. He just stood there, hands at his sides, like he was letting the words land where they may. Like he knew he deserved each one.
"I know," he said quietly, his voice hoarse. "And I am forever sorry."
There was no defense in his tone. No justification. Just raw, tired regret.
"I don't expect forgiveness," he continued, eyes locked on mine, and for once, I could see the honesty behind them. "I know I don't have the right to ask for it—not after everything. It's a sad thing, isn't it? To finally wake up and realize how much damage you've done... only to find it's far too late."
He glanced down for a moment, swallowed hard.
"I wish I could say it was just this past year, just that betrayal, but we both know better. It was years, October. Years of making you feel small, unheard. Years of standing beside you without really standing with you. And then I shattered what little trust remained."
"I will never get those years back," he said. "I know that. And I will never get you back the way I had you. But if all I can do now is make space for your healing, build something for you, be better for the kids—even if it's from a distance—I'll do it. I swear I'll do it."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a thick envelope, held it with both hands as though it might shatter.
"So... here it is."
The air shifted, like something sacred was about to pass between us.
He handed me the papers. My heart knew what they were before my eyes even read the words.
"What are these?" I asked, though my voice barely made it past my throat. It cracked like a branch splitting under weight.
"Divorce papers," he said, steady but soft. "Signed by me. All that's missing is your signature."
For a moment, everything around us seemed to go silent — like the world paused to let the words settle in my chest. Then he added, quickly — almost too quickly —
 "I don't want that." His voice wavered, "But I know," he continued, " that you do. And if it is still what you want, I won't fight you. I won't beg or manipulate or make it harder than it already is. You've been through enough."
He looked down, swallowing hard. "So... I'm giving you that choice. Fully. Freely."
I stared at the papers in my hands like they were burning. "Okay... what's the rest of it?" I asked, gesturing toward the folder.
He opened it, carefully sliding out another set of papers.
"These," he said, "are half of my shares in the company. They're in your name now."
"What?" I said, stunned.
"The other half," he continued, "are for the kids. Each will get their portion when they turn 22. I've already set it up. Legal and final. No strings."
I stared at him, the documents still in my hands, their weight suddenly heavier than paper should feel. It wasn't just legal language or numbers—this was something else. A shift. A quiet reckoning. My voice barely found its way out.
"Why are you doing this?"
He looked up at me, and for once, he didn't flinch. His voice came steady, but quiet. "Because you supported me. Because I was too proud—too blind, honestly—to admit how much of what I built was only possible because of you."
He took a step closer, but not too close. Just enough for his voice to drop lower, more intimate, more honest.
"You were the one who held everything together. The house, the kids, me. I was running toward success like it was some kind of finish line, and you were the one picking up everything I dropped along the way. You sacrificed your time, your energy, your peace. Your dreams."