She said:
“I should have told you immediately.”
“Yes.”
She looked surprised by how directly I answered.
I continued.
“But I understand why you didn't.”
“That doesn't excuse it.”
“No.”
“Does Fiona speak to you?”
“Sometimes.”
“How is she?”
Rosalind studied me.
“You really want to know?”
I thought.
“No.”
She nodded.
“Then I won't tell you.”
That was kindness.
Six months after the divorce, I got a call from a number I did not recognize.
A woman named Patricia.
Friend of Rosalind.
She knew enough of my story to ask for advice.
Her husband’s behavior had changed.
Travel.
Money.
Phone secrecy.
She was afraid she might be imagining it.
“Is it wrong to look?”
She asked.
I said:
“No.”
“But do not start with the conclusion that he is cheating.”
“What do I start with?”
“What do you actually know?”
She listed things.
I made her separate facts from interpretations.
FACT:
He withdrew money.
INTERPRETATION:
He is funding an affair.
FACT:
He changed a password.
INTERPRETATION:
He is hiding messages.
FACT:
He lied about where he was Tuesday.
That one mattered more.
I told her:
“Follow facts.”
“Do it lawfully.”
“Don't invade accounts you are not entitled to access.”
“Don't turn suspicion into permission to violate somebody.”
“And decide what information you actually need before you go searching for pain.”
We talked forty minutes.
I did not charge her.
Patricia eventually learned her husband was having an affair.
Their divorce was louder than mine.
Two children.
Custody.
Anger.
A year later, she emailed.
Not happy.
But okay.
Those were her words.
Okay.
I saved the email.
It reminded me why truth matters even when truth does not create happy endings.
Full information gives people agency.
Comfortable fiction does not.
Two years after Josephine, I finally returned to Sylvan Park.
Not intentionally.
A client meeting ended nearby.
Traffic diverted me past the old coffee shop.
My first instinct was to keep driving.
Then I pulled over.
Went inside.
Same window table.
Different barista.
I ordered Fiona’s old drink by accident.
Realized after paying.
Almost left.
Then laughed.
Sat down.
The table did not hurt as much as I expected.
Memories came.
Saturday mornings.
Newspaper sections.
Fiona laughing at an article.
Our knees touching beneath the table.
None of it became contaminated simply because later years were.
I stayed twenty minutes.
Finished the coffee.
Left.
That felt more significant than finalizing the divorce.
A year after that, I saw Fiona again.
Not planned.
A charity event downtown.
Same organization where we first met.
Hands On Nashville.
Of course.