“That doesn’t explain why she wrote to me.”
“No,” he said. “It explains why she wanted me to believe you had rejected me.”
I looked at the letter again.
The words were mine to read, but the voice behind them had never belonged to me.
“She used my mother’s typewriter,” I whispered.
Douglas nodded.
“She told me she had spoken to your mother. She said you were engaged to someone else. When I asked why you hadn’t told me, she gave me the letter.”
I pressed my fingertips to my lips.
“I wasn’t engaged.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“My mother confessed in 1998.”
The year landed between us.
“Why didn’t you contact me then?”
Douglas lowered his eyes.
“Because by then I had been married to Elaine for twelve years. We had two children. She had breast cancer.”
My anger faltered.
“She was ill?”
“Yes. She recovered, thankfully, but the treatment nearly broke her. I couldn’t walk back into your life carrying an apology and expect it to be enough. I thought my regret was mine to live with.”
