I turn back and see her walking toward me, arms crossed tight across her chest.
The kids are already inside. The door clicks shut behind them.
She stops a few feet away, shifting her weight like she’s not entirely sure she wants to be having this conversation.
“You do realize you’re throwing away every chance of us ever getting back together, right?” she asks.
I blink slowly.
That… wasn’t what I expected.
For a second, all I hear is the faint hum of traffic down the street and the distant echo of the kids’ laughter from inside the house.
I exhale, steady and slow.
“Iris…” My voice comes out softer than I planned. “You remember the day we got divorced?”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“I told you when I took that ring off… I wasn’t putting it back on again.”
She looks away for a second, then back at me.
“But you’re throwing everything away. Any chance of us ever getting back together will be gone.” Her arms stay crossed, stance wide, expression hard. But underneath it, I can see it now—the insecurity, the sadness, the regret she doesn’t quite know how to say out loud. “I’m just saying…” she mutters, eyes flickingbriefly toward the house. “Once you marry someone else, that door’s closed. Completely.”
“And you really want that?” I ask. “To get back together?”
She hesitates.
“I didn’t say that,” she says quickly. “I’m just saying you’re closing theoption.”
I glance past her, imagining the life I’ll build with Lizzie tomorrow, and I know that this is where I’m meant to be. I shake my head gently.
“I know that’s how you see it. But… that choice was made the day you wanted the divorce.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “I’m marrying Lizzie tomorrow.”
The words feel steady and certain—not defensive. Just true.
A silence settles between us. Not hostile. Just heavy with everything we used to be and everything we’re not anymore.
I search her face and feel something unexpected.
Not anger. Not resentment. Just… sadness.
“I forgave you, Iris,” I say quietly. “A long time ago.”
Her expression flickers for half a second.
“I just hope one day you can forgive yourself. Life gets messy. We both know that. But God has a way of redeeming messy chapters.” I offer a small, genuine nod. “I’ll pray that you find joy in Him moving forward. Real joy. The kind that doesn’t depend on everything going perfectly.”
Because really… that’s what I see. I see her behind her mask of pride, and I see the insecurity there. I see the yearning for her life to be different. Maybe she thought the divorce would solve everything going on inside.
And that’s just not the way it works. But it’s okay. Because redemption is always available.
I hope God meets her where she’s at and redeems all of the brokenness that happened between us.
She doesn’t respond right away. But then, she nods once and turns back toward the house.
The door closes behind her.
