Richard had loved me.
I believe that now.
He had also chosen for me.
He decided what I could bear, what I should know, and what pain I was allowed to carry.
He convinced himself that secrecy was sacrifice and cruelty was protection.
Maybe some people would call that love in its most tragic form.
Maybe other people would call it one last act of control from a man who still could not trust me to choose my own suffering.
Standing by the window of my new apartment with his letter in my hands, I still could not tell which truth hurt more.
