“All right,” I said. “Meet me at nine.”
After we ended the call, I remained at the kitchen table until the tea went cold.
The sealed letter lay beneath my hand.
I had spent half my life imagining what Douglas might have written if he had loved me enough to stay. Now thirty-seven letters waited inside a box, and I was afraid to open even one.
Not because I feared discovering that he had lied.
Because I feared discovering that he had told the truth.
At seven, I showered, dressed, and drove to my childhood home.
The house had belonged to my parents until my mother died. I had kept it because selling it felt like surrender, though I lived only two streets away in a smaller place. My mother’s bedroom remained mostly untouched. The wallpaper had faded near the window, and a hairbrush still sat on the dresser beside a small porcelain dish.
