The charade of reconciliation

The restaurant buzzed with the sound of soft conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the quiet hum of background music. I sat across from Samuel, my fingers lightly tracing the edge of the menu in front of me. My eyes skimmed the dishes, but my mind was far from the elegant descriptions of salads and entrees. The table between us was small, but the distance between our lives felt vast—so much pain, anger, and betrayal that no menu could paper over.

I glanced up at him, sitting there with his usual calm demeanor, his eyes fixed on the menu as if this was just any other lunch as if we hadn’t spent years locked in a twisted, bitter marriage. Samuel looked composed, almost too composed, like he had rehearsed this moment. Maybe he had. I knew why he was here, and what he was trying to do, and it made my stomach twist with resentment. I was no longer the naive girl he could manipulate, yet here I was, sitting across from him, playing this game.

As I stared at him, my thoughts drifted bac