“You decided that for me too.”
“I know.”
The words were barely audible.
I stood and walked to the window. Outside, evening had gathered over the hospital parking lot. The glass reflected my face, older than the woman in the photograph, but still recognizable.
For forty years, I had believed Douglas had chosen another woman because I hadn’t been enough.
Now I learned that he had chosen no one freely at all.
He had been frightened, obedient, and perhaps cowardly. But so had I.
I had accepted one letter as truth because believing him cruel had been easier than believing he was lost.
Behind me, Douglas said, “I’m sorry.”
I closed my eyes.
The apology was too small for the years between us. Yet it was the only thing he could offer.
“Did Elaine know?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Eventually.”
“When?”
“After my mother died. Elaine found a copy of the letter in one of her desk drawers. She asked me about you. I told her the truth.”
