Harrison had spent hours on a bus imagining the moment he would finally see his first love again after fifty years of regret. But during a roadside stop, an unfamiliar woman called and begged him to say he had not arrived yet, turning the journey into something far more urgent than a reunion.
Margaret was my first love.
The only woman I ever truly believed I was supposed to grow old beside.
But fifty years earlier, I let her leave.
I never stopped loving her. That would have been easier to survive.
I let her go because I was young, proud, and foolish in the particular way men sometimes are.
Margaret had the chance to leave our small town and build a better future than anything I believed I could give her.
So I convinced myself I was doing something noble.
I told myself love meant stepping aside and allowing her to go.
What I really did was break both our hearts and call it sacrifice.
I never married.
I nearly married a woman from church who loved the same books I did, and later a widow in my forties who smelled of lavender and laughed with her entire body.
But whenever life began asking something permanent of me, I pulled away.
Neither woman was unkind or unworthy.
They simply were not Margaret.
And when you spend enough years comparing everything to one thing you lost, you begin living beside your life instead of inside it.
I had no children.
No close family remained except a few distant cousins who received Christmas cards from me more out of habit than affection.
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