Chapter 6 - THE MAN WHO BOUGHT THE WRONG FLOWERS
Dante sent flowers.
White roses.
Two dozen.
The kind he'd sent after arguments for years.
I stared at them when the delivery arrived.
Then asked the courier to return them.
The next day, he sent jewelry.
A diamond bracelet.
I returned that too.
Then came a handwritten letter.
I almost didn't open it.
But curiosity won.
Elena,
I keep trying to find something expensive enough to prove I'm sorry.
I think that's because money is the only language I've practiced for years.
You deserved words.
You deserved time.
You deserved a husband who remembered that you were a person before you were his wife.
I don't know whether you'll ever forgive me.
But I am sorry.
Dante.
I read it twice.
Then folded it carefully.
For the first time, his apology didn't ask me to come home.
It simply acknowledged what he'd done.
That evening, I called him.
He answered immediately.
“Elena?”
“I got your letter.”
Silence.
“Thank you for reading it.”
I looked down.
“I'm not coming home.”
His voice tightened.
“I know.”
“And I'm not promising anything.”
“I understand.”
I swallowed.
“But I wanted you to know I read it.”
A pause.
Then:
“That means more than you know.”
We began speaking occasionally.
Not every day.
Not for hours.
Short conversations.
About ordinary things.
The weather.
Olivia.
Rosa.
The painting exhibition.
Dante asked questions.
Real questions.
And listened to the answers.
It was strange.
After eight years of marriage, we were learning how to talk.
Then one evening, he asked:
“Can I see your paintings?”
I hesitated.
“Why?”
“Because I should have asked years ago.”
I looked at the unfinished canvas beside me.
Then said:
“Maybe someday.”
May you like
He smiled softly.
“I'll wait.”
