Each X, Each O

This story contains sensitive content, including mentions of sexual violence, mental health struggles, and emotional abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

Behar's Letter to Nadine

Dear Nadine,

I don't know how to begin this letter, except to say I’m sorry — though I know how insufficient those two words must seem after everything I put you through. It’s been years since we last spoke, and even longer since I last saw you. The memories of what I did, what I destroyed, still haunt me in ways I can’t describe. I don’t expect forgiveness, and I have no right to ask for it. But I need to say these things, even if it’s too late.

When I think back to our time together, I see a woman who deserved better — someone kind, resilient, and trusting. And I see myself: selfish, angry, and destructive. I stole things from you that no one has the right to take. I robbed you of peace, safety, and love. I was supposed to be your husband, but I became your undoing. For that, Nadine, I am deeply, irrevocably sorry.

The years we spent together were marked by my failures. The bankruptcy wasn’t just about losing money; it was about losing stability, a foundation we should have built together. Esmé’s custody battle was a wound I know never fully healed for you. Watching you lose her — because of me, my choices, and my neglect — is a guilt I’ll carry forever. She was your light, and I dimmed it, leaving you in darkness when you needed support the most.

And then there’s the unspeakable: the night I crossed every boundary and committed the unforgivable. I truly hurt you. Writing those words feels like trying to breathe underwater, but they need to be said. What I did was violence, plain and simple. It wasn’t about love, passion, or even anger; it was about control, and I had no right. I stripped you of agency, trust, and dignity. That night broke something in you — and in me, though I didn’t deserve to feel its weight.

When you fell into the coma, I thought it was the universe punishing me. Seeing you lifeless, clinging to the edge of existence, I realized the gravity of what I had done. You survived, but not because of me. You survived in spite of me. And when you walked away, choosing life over the hollow shell of what we’d become, I knew it was the right thing, even as it shattered my ego.

Now, years later, I see you thriving — or at least trying to rebuild what I broke. You have a voice that commands attention, a strength I could never match. You are a testament to resilience, a reminder that even in the face of unimaginable pain, it’s possible to rise again. I wish I could say I contributed to that, but I know the truth. You became who you are not because of me, but because you were strong enough to leave me behind.

This letter isn’t an attempt to rewrite history or absolve myself of guilt. It’s a reckoning. I’ve started therapy — something I should have done decades ago — and every session forces me to confront the monster I was. My therapist tells me that accountability is the first step to healing, and so here I am, laying it bare. You don’t owe me anything, least of all forgiveness. But if there’s any part of you that can find peace in knowing I’ve faced the truth, I hope you’ll take it.

I’ll never forget you, Nadine. Not the way you smiled when Esmé made you laugh, or the way you carried so much weight on your shoulders without ever breaking. You were the best part of my life, and I was the worst part of yours. I will carry that with me forever.

Sincerely,

Behar Ilyas

XOXO

(Each X for the wrongs I’ve done. Each O for the hope that you’ve moved beyond them.)

Nadine's Response to Behar

Dear Behar,

I received your letter. And while part of me wants to crumple it and toss it away, another part of me feels it deserves a response. Not for you, but for me.

Let me be clear: I do not believe in "forgive and forget." I’ve heard that phrase too many times from people who wanted me to sweep their wrongs under the rug, to erase the scars they left behind as if they were never there. It’s a phrase that diminishes the weight of pain, as if forgetting could somehow heal the wounds or make what happened less real. What you did to me was real, Behar. Every betrayal, every violation, every moment of control—it was real. And I will not forget.

Forgiveness, on the other hand, is something I’ve wrestled with. People often equate forgiveness with absolution, but that’s not what it means to me. To forgive is to release the power your actions have over my present, to say that your choices no longer dictate how I live my life. In some ways, I’ve already done that. Not for you, but for me. For Esmé. For Yulian. For everyone I’ve had to rebuild myself for. I’ve taken my life back, Behar, and you no longer hold any part of it.

But forgiveness doesn’t mean I excuse what you did. It doesn’t mean you’re absolved. It doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how it felt to lose my daughter, my safety, and my sense of self because of you. It doesn’t mean I don’t remember the coma, the bankruptcy, or the night you committed the unforgivable. Forgiveness doesn’t erase the past. It simply means I’ve chosen not to let it define my future.

You talk about accountability, and I’ll give you this much: writing that letter was a step. Owning your actions in words is better than silence. But words are easy, Behar. Actions are harder. You didn’t just break my trust; you shattered it, repeatedly, over years. That kind of destruction doesn’t get mended with an apology, no matter how late or how heartfelt. Healing comes from within, and I’ve learned to stop waiting for it to come from anyone else, least of all you.

You were right about one thing: I am strong. But I didn’t become strong because of you. I became strong despite you. Despite the chaos, the trauma, and the darkness you brought into my life. And while I can recognize the effort it took for you to write that letter, it doesn’t change my truth.

I hope your therapy brings you clarity and growth. I hope you face the full weight of your actions and learn to carry it without expecting others to lighten the load. But don’t mistake my response for an invitation. This letter isn’t the beginning of a conversation; it’s the end.

I don’t wish you ill, Behar, but I also don’t wish you well. I wish you accountability. I wish you responsibility. And I wish you the strength to find those things without me.

Sincerely,

Nadine

XOXO

(Each X for every wound I’ve endured. Each O for every ounce of strength I’ve reclaimed.)