He’d taken a real memory from our marriage and turned it into a story about my death.
“I’m so sorry,” Claire whispered.
I believed her.
We arranged to meet the following afternoon.
Before hanging up, she asked, “Did he ever tell you about me?”
“No.”
“He told me he was finally ready to start living again.”
I looked at our wedding photograph.
“He never stopped living. He just forgot to tell you about the life he already had.”
Claire arrived at the coffee shop carrying a canvas bag.
She was in her early forties, with tired eyes and a wedding band on her finger.
Seeing that ring nearly made me leave.
Instead, I sat opposite her.
“I almost didn’t come,” she admitted.
“Neither did I.”
She showed me hundreds of messages.
Mark calling her beautiful.
Mark promising visits.
Mark thanking her for helping him love again.
There were photographs of birthdays, Christmas dinners, and weekends away.
