Charles didn’t argue. He simply looked at me with calm eyes and said he wouldn’t stand in the way of my freedom. We signed the papers without drama, and even shared a quiet dinner afterward, though my heart was too guarded to appreciate the moment. The next morning, everything changed. A neighbor called to tell me Charles had collapsed from a heart attack. When I rushed home, I found an envelope on the kitchen table with a letter he had written. In it, he explained that every small gesture—dimming the lights, finishing tasks before I noticed, remembering my routines—was his way of caring, not limiting me. His words opened my eyes to the love I had misunderstood.
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