新媒网 · 跨境数据社区

I can’t tell you his story. Or even our story, together. The story of my marriage to him changes, day by day, even for me. I can tell you he was waiting for me. I know it because he wrote to me. He wrote to me continually over the two years between our divorce and his death. He wrote to me long after I stopped responding. And each time he wrote, mixed through the incoherent, contradictory sentences, between the parts where he told me how my writing was pathetic without him, between the insults thrown toward my mother and friends, and even as he told me how I was sick and shallow, how I was heartless and broken, and how in the end I would have nothing, he always fell back into the same heartbreaking refrain. He would forgive me. He still loved me. He would take me back. If only I would come back. He was waiting.