She answered on the third ring. Her voice was tired. “What do you want?”
“I found something. A letter. From your father.”
Silence.
“Do you want it?”
Another silence.
“Yes.”
I drove to her apartment. It was small. Cramped. Greg was at work. Lily was at school. Sarah was alone.
I handed her the letter. She opened it. She read it. She cried.
I sat with her. I didn’t speak. I just sat.
When she finished, she looked at me. Her eyes were red. Her face was wet.
“He loved me.”
“He did.”
“I was so angry. I was so stupid.”
“You were hurt.”
“I treated you badly. I treated him badly. I let Lily treat you badly.”
“Yes.”
She looked at the letter. Then at me.
“Can you forgive me?”
I thought about it. I thought about Robert. I thought about the years we had lost. I thought about the years we could still have.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m willing to try.”
She hugged me. I let her.
It wasn’t a fairy tale. It wasn’t a happy ending. But it was a beginning.
The final image: I was sitting on the porch swing. The sun was setting. The sky was pink and gold. Sarah was beside me. Lily was in the yard, chasing fireflies. Greg was inside, making dinner. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t what I had imagined. But it was real. And it was mine.
I looked at the roses Robert had planted. They were still blooming.
I smiled.
The House That Robert Built
