He carefully handed it to me.
My fingers shook as I opened it.
The handwriting was unmistakably Michael’s.
My dearest Irene,
If you’re reading this, I probably haven’t been around to remind you of something important.
You always thought the roses were my gift to you.
But you were wrong.
The first year we were married, I planted one because I was afraid I couldn’t give you the beautiful life you deserved.
You had married a man with more dreams than money.
I wanted to build something that would last.
Every year, I planted another rose because I wanted to remember that we had survived another season together.
Some years were easy.
Some nearly broke us.
But every spring, you found a reason to begin again.
The roses were never proof of how much I loved you.
They were proof of how much life you brought into our home.
And if someday you find yourself wondering whether you still have something to give, look at the garden.
Everything growing there began because you stayed.
I stopped reading.
The words blurred.
Caleb gently steadied the paper.
There was one final paragraph.
One day, when Caleb is grown and the house feels too quiet, I hope you will open the garden to people who need a place to begin again. I think you already know how to make that happen. You’ve been doing it for us all your life.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
For nine years, I had believed I was keeping Michael’s garden alive because I couldn’t bear to lose the last part of him.
Now I understood something that changed everything.
He had never intended the garden to hold me in the past.
He had hoped it would carry me toward the future.
Caleb wrapped his arms around me.
I cried against his shoulder.
