“Wait!” Harrison called out, reaching for my arm but pulling back before he touched me. “At least let me see them. Let me be a father.”
“You spent five years believing the worst of me without a single shred of evidence,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “You made your choice back in Manhattan, and now you have to live with it.”
I stepped into the vehicle and closed the door, cutting off the chill of the Chicago air and the sound of Harrison’s voice. Through the tinted window, I saw him standing alone on the sidewalk as our driver pulled away from the curb.
As we drove toward our home in the suburbs, the kids chattered happily about their day, completely oblivious to the storm that had just passed. I looked out at the passing trees, feeling a strange mix of sorrow and liberation. 
Harrison had spent half a decade believing he was the victim, holding onto bitterness while I built a joyful life out of the ashes of our marriage. Seeing him realize his mistake didn’t bring me the revengeful pleasure I thought it might, but it did bring me complete closure.
Later that evening, after the children were sound asleep in their rooms, my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. It was an unknown number, but I already knew who was calling. 
I answered without saying a word, listening to the quiet breathing on the other end of the line.
