He answered on the first ring, but his voice was cold.
“Where did you get that sweater?” he asked.
I told him I found it in a thrift store—his name still stitched inside in my handwriting.
Silence.
“I donated everything from childhood,” he said finally. “I didn’t want it anymore.”
My chest tightened. “Why?”
Then he said quietly,
“Because I had to forget I ever needed you.”
A pause.
“But that sweater…” he added, “was never mine.”
