Inside the room was my ex-husband, David—pale, thin, hooked to an IV. Ryan admitted the truth: David was dying. He’d reached out to Ryan, desperate to see Avery before it was too late. Avery had begged him not to tell me, afraid I’d say no.
I was furious. David had walked out on us years ago. He didn’t fight for his daughter then. But Avery wasn’t asking for forgiveness—only permission to say goodbye.
That night, I realized it wasn’t about my pain. It was about hers.
The next day, I went with them to the hospital. I brought a pie—David’s favorite. Not forgiveness, just honesty. I told him clearly: I was there for Avery, not him.
Over the following weeks, we went together. It wasn’t easy. Nothing felt resolved. But Avery stopped sneaking around. She laughed again. She slept better.
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