The breeze was warmer than I remembered. Still carried that smell of distant rain and earth. I stood at the edge of her driveway, hands in my pockets, heart beating like it hadn't in years.
Six years.
Six years since I walked away with a pen in my hand and her name on divorce papers.
And now, here I was again.
The front porch still had the same faded welcome mat. There were potted plants, thriving. Wind chimes. Everything quiet. Everything... hers. It felt like I had no place here. And maybe I didn't. But I needed to try.
I raised my hand, hesitated, then finally knocked.
The door opened halfway. And there she was.
Sandra.
Time had only refined her. She wore it like armor—stronger, sharper, with a grace I hadn't deserved back then. Her eyes landed on me, and for a moment, we both stood frozen.
Her voice broke the silence. "Andre?"
I nodded once. "Hi."
She didn't move. "What are you doing here?"
"I was in town," I lied. Partially. "I wanted to see you."
Her jaw tightened. "It's been six years."
"I know."
"What do you want?"
The words hit me harder than I expected, but I deserved that. I looked down, then back at her. "Just a few minutes. If you'll let me."
She didn't answer, but she didn't shut the door either. After a long moment, she stepped aside.
I entered slowly, quietly. The house smelled like cinnamon and fresh linen. Warm. Peaceful. Full of a life I was no longer a part of.
She sat across from me in the living room, arms folded. No small talk. No pleasantries.
Straight to it.
"Well?"
"I'm not here to stir anything up," I said gently. "I just… I've been thinking a lot. About us. About how things ended."
Sandra didn't blink. "You ended it, Andre."
I nodded. "I did. And I was wrong."
Silence.
I cleared my throat. "Back then, I thoughti was doing the right thing by letting you go. But to think of how I did it, was not very nice."
Her expression didn't soften. "Why now?"
"Because I couldn't shake the weight anymore," I said. "I kept telling myself it was too late to reach out, too messy. But the truth is—I'm sorry that i let things happen. I shouldn't have let my mother make things difficult for you and i shouldn't have treated you badly."
Her lips pressed into a line. "And you think showing up out of nowhere will fix that?"
"No," I said quickly. "I don't expect forgiveness. I don't expect anything. I just… I hoped we could talk. Maybe not be strangers."
She stood, walked to the window. Her back to me. "You signed the papers and never looked back. Not one call. Not one message."
"I was ashamed."
"You should be. I reached out to you but there was no response."
Her voice was soft but sure. And it cut deeper than any shout ever could.
"I'm sorry, Sandra," I said, my voice catching. "I was just so filled with anger and duty"
She turned around slowly. Her eyes were bright now, glistening. "Do you know how long it took me to keep reaching out?"
"No," I said honestly. "I don't. But the truth is i never saw your calls. And even if i did,I just didn't think I had the right to say anything after what I did."
She exhaled, one arm wrapped around herself.
"I came to say I'm sorry," I said. "Truly. Deeply. I failed you as a husband. I failed you as a friend. And I'm not asking for anything now. No second chances. No pretending the past didn't happen. I just hoped… maybe we could start over as friends."
That word hung in the air like a foreign language. Friends.
She laughed, short and bitter. "Friends?"
"I know it sounds strange," I admitted. "But I mean it. You were my friend before anything else. And maybe that's all we can be now. But I'd rather have that than nothing."
Sandra stared at me for a long time. Her face unreadable.
Then something behind her shifted—a faint sound, like footsteps upstairs. Her eyes flicked toward the hallway, just for a second. But it was enough.
I caught it. "You live alone?"
Her reaction was almost too subtle to catch—but it was there. A flicker of hesitation.
She recovered quickly. "What does that matter?"
I nodded, backing off. "It doesn't. Sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
She sighed and sat back down. The sharp edges of her tone began to dull, even if just slightly.
"I've built a life, Andre," she said finally. "One that doesn't revolve around the pain you left behind. It took everything in me to do that. So don't walk in here and ask for a clean slate."
"I'm not," I said. "I know the slate can't be clean. I just… I wanted to honor what we had, even if it ended badly."
She looked down at her hands. "We were young and imature."
"You could say that" I agreed.
"I was foolishly inlove."
"you weren't foolish" I whispered.
Silence again. But this time it was shared, not accusatory.
"I don't know what being friends would even look like," she said eventually. "We're different people now."
"That's okay," I said. "I'd like to meet the person you've become. Even if it's just occasional check-ins. Or we could go out for tea now and then."
Her lips twitched, just barely. "You drink tea now?"
I smiled. "Still hate it. But for you? I'd learn to tolerate it."
A soft snort escaped her. "Some things never change."
We both paused.
And just like that, the tension cracked—if only slightly.
"I'll think about it," she said finally. "That's the best I can offer."
I nodded. "It's more than I hoped for."
I stood, ready to leave. I didn't want to push. Didn't want to overstay. I'd said what I came to say.
At the door, I turned back. "You look good, Sandra. Happy. It suits you."
She met my eyes, and for a split second, something softened. "Thank you ."
I hesitated. "Thank you. For listening."
And then I stepped out into the warm afternoon air, the door quietly closing behind me.
I didn't know what would come next. Whether she'd reach out. Whether this thread of fragile peace would grow into something stable.
But for the first time in six years, I felt lighter.