So, when I was twenty-five, a man named Samuel Carter walked into the bakery during a storm.
He was soaked and carrying a broken umbrella.
“Do you sell coffee strong enough to save a dying man?” he asked.
I laughed before I could hold back.
Samuel returned the next day.
And then he came back the following week.
He never pushed me. When I was silent, I respected my silence. When I spoke, I listened.
One night, in the light of a streetlight, he told me he loved me.
Makeup at night
Several weeks later, I finally revealed a part of my past.
“I was married once,” I said. My husband left me the morning after our wedding because he told everyone that I was not a virgin.
I waited for Samuel to look at me disgustedly.
Instead, his eyes were filled with pain.
“Clara,” he whispered, “whatever happened to you was never a shame that belonged to you.
No one had ever told me those words.
A year later, Samuel asked me to marry him.
I said yes.
But the night before our wedding, he found an old letter hidden under my clothes.
