I didn’t open it at the church.
I sat on the old bench we never replaced, tucked my legs underneath me, and stared out at the garden we’d once built together. The hydrangeas had come back.
That was something.
I held the letter for a long time before I opened it. I ran my thumb along the edge of the paper like it might cut me.
His handwriting hadn’t changed.
That was something.
“Julia,
I didn’t touch anyone else, my love. I promise. There was no affair. I got the diagnosis, and I knew what it would do to you.
You would’ve stayed. You would’ve fed me soup and cleaned up after me and watched me fade, and it would’ve taken you with me.
You gave me your whole life. I couldn’t ask for you to give me more…
“I didn’t touch anyone else, my love.”
I needed you to live, my love. I needed you to hate me more than you loved me, just long enough to walk away.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But if you’re reading this, it means I got my wish. That you’re still here.
That you lived.
I loved you until the end.
— Richard”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I sat with the letter in my lap, the words swimming in and out of focus. My hand was over my mouth. I didn’t cry, not right away. I just breathed, slow and shallow, until I heard the porch light buzz and flicker on.
As if even the house didn’t quite know what to do with this.
The next morning, I called Gina and Alex and asked them to come over. I didn’t explain why — I just told them I had something to share.
