He would have complained about the crooked benches.
Then he would have kissed my cheek and told me I had done well.
Caleb approached.
“Mom, there’s one more thing.”
I looked at him suspiciously.
“What have you done?”
He smiled.
“Nothing involving your signature.”
I laughed.
He took my hand.
“Come inside.”
The greenhouse had been transformed.
Sunlight poured through the new glass.
Rows of young rose plants stood along the walls.
At the center was a wooden display table.
On it lay Michael’s green notebook.
Beside it stood a small framed photograph of us on our wedding day.
I recognized the picture immediately.
Michael was wearing a navy suit.
I was twenty-seven, laughing at something he had whispered.
In my hands was a bouquet of red roses.
Caleb stood beside me.
“I found something else in Dad’s papers.”
He opened the notebook to its final pages.
There, tucked between two sheets, was a folded letter.
The paper had yellowed.
My name was written on the front.
I stared at it.
“I’ve never seen this.”
“I know.”
