Life abroad went smoothly. My manager even entrusted me with organizing the next quarter’s special commentary series.
However, Evan was relentless. He followed me overseas, delivering fresh roses every day and buying any piece of jewelry he noticed me glancing at in–store windows.
Even a few of my foreign colleagues started joking about how I must have some irresistible charm, placing bets on what he’d gift me next.
I returned everything he sent, untouched, with a note attached: “These gifts, like love, are cheap and meaningless.”
your
Perhaps stung by those words, he started trying to do things he thought would actually
matter.
On Christmas Eve, during a snowstorm, he knelt outside my door, shivering as he confessed, “I’ll endure every bit of pain I ever made you go through.”
He looked battered and frail, a shadow of his former self, as snow fell and blanketed his
shoulders.
The sight reminded me of another snowy night, years ago.
That time, my car broke down on a deserted road. I called him, and though he was drunk, he assured me he’d come right away.
But I waited all night in the freezing cold, nearly passing out from the chill, before he finally arrived, hours late. His excuse? He’d been busy entertaining clients.
So, he always knew the kind of pain and humiliation I endured–he just chose to ignore it.
Unlike Anne, I didn’t constantly voice my hurt. And now, only after losing me, did he realize my worth.
I looked at him with disdain. “I’m hosting a party. Stop blocking the entrance. If you want to kneel, go somewhere I can’t see you.”
