I Made His Wife’s Dress Now I’ll Marry Another Chapter 62
On the day the ruling was made public, Adrian came to see me.
He had taken off his wedding ring.
“The divorce is final,” he said. “The court confirmed I’m not Leo’s biological father, but I petitioned to retain visitation rights. Sabine agreed.”
“That’s between the two of you.”
“I know.”
He placed an old archive box on the table. Inside were the pattern from when I was thirteen, torn and pieced back together, and the label I had cut from my wedding dress six years ago.
The one on top read:
*Clara Whitmore, Bride.*
The broken stitches were jagged. White satin fibers from the dress still clung to the back.
“These were always yours to have back,” he said.
I didn’t touch the label.
“Adrian, preserving these doesn’t mean you preserved me.”
“I understand.”
His hand lifted automatically toward his cuff, then stopped.
“I won’t send any more emails. I used to think that if I kept explaining, eventually I’d earn your understanding. Now I know that understanding isn’t the same as forgiveness.”
He took two steps toward the door, then looked back.
“If I had just asked you once, six years ago—”
“But you didn’t.”
He closed his eyes, nodded once, and left.
After the door shut, I filed away the pattern from when I was thirteen and left the bride’s label in the box.
Some things are worth keeping to prove they happened.
Not to wear again.