I thought of Lauren’s careful questions over the years. The way she had counted rooms. The way she had joked about inheritance during holidays. The way she had insisted that a family home was wasted on one old man.
“Yes,” I said. “But I ignored it because I wanted you to be happy.”
Michael stared at me.
“I was not happy.”
“I know now.”
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“I am going to keep saying it until you believe I understand.”
“You do not need to punish yourself to prove remorse.”
“What do I need to do?”
“Tell the truth before the truth becomes expensive.”
He nodded.
We sat together beneath the oak, not touching. The distance between our shoulders was only a few inches, but it carried four months of lies.
Then he placed the photograph in my hand.
“I found something else in the attic.”
He went inside and returned with a small wooden box.
I recognized it immediately.
It had belonged to my wife.
I had not seen it since the week after the funeral.
Michael set it on the bench.
“It was behind the loose board under the window.”
The box had a brass clasp. My wife had kept letters in it, along with jewelry she rarely wore.
My hand shook as I opened it.
Inside were three envelopes tied with faded blue ribbon.
The first was addressed to me.
The handwriting stopped my breath.
I unfolded the letter.
My darling,
If you are reading this, I have probably found a way to hide something from you for too long. Do not be angry. I wanted to leave you a surprise, and you have always been terrible at waiting.
I looked at Michael.
