I Saved His Voicemail and Listen on Bad Nights
Fourteen seconds. "I mean it." I've played it enough to know the breath before the last word.
My husband snores gently like a man with a clear conscience.
I put in earbuds. Volume low.
Fourteen seconds of a voice that promised to leave a situation it never left.
I should delete it. Deleting feels like death.
Keeping feels like addiction.
I am forty-one and listening to voicemail like a teenager.
The worst part is it still works. It still steadies me.
That means I'm not done. That means I'm not sorry enough yet.
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