You said, don’t you still love me?

I said no.

You cried.

I didn’t.

Your mother slapped me. She doesn’t know. But she might have anyway.

I think my mother wanted to slap me too. But she didn’t. She’s my mother, after all. She doesn’t know either.

They all think I’m horrible. And I’ve let them. As if I don’t mind, but I do.

Your friend Angela called me a bastard. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell my mother. She might have slapped Angela. Because it’s true, I guess.

Your brother called me a worthless son of a bitch for abandoning you now. And I didn’t defend myself. He didn’t punch me, which was a relief. I’ve always been afraid of him. I never told you.

Maybe they’re right. But I can’t stay. It’s not mine and I can’t forget that as your belly swells with him.

They don’t know. I didn’t tell them.

And that, I guess, is more love than the beautiful wedding and the intimate nights and tender words and the gentle touches. And all those times I told you I loved you. Before.

You shouldn’t have asked me to say it. Because I can’t say it anymore.

But you should know, because I walked away. And I didn’t tell anyone.