I bought the ring. Probably foolish. Everything important I’ve ever done concerning you has felt a little foolish.
Then:
I hope he walks you home when it rains.
That one broke me.
Because Robert had.
Many times.
Different man.
Different love.
No betrayal in either.
I placed Thomas’s letter beside Robert’s photograph.
“Both of you were good to me,” I whispered.
Thomas was not the life I should have had.
Robert was not a detour.
They were both my life.
Eventually construction began.
I did not move back into the main house.
Instead, I chose the small apartment above the renovated carriage house.
Two rooms.
A kitchenette.
A balcony overlooking Evelyn’s roses.
Enough.
Then a contractor removing an old cabinet from Thomas’s study discovered another envelope.
It was not from Thomas.
Not from Evelyn.
It was from my mother.
Written in 1991.
Addressed to Thomas.
The first line read:
