My hands shook as I opened it.
The handwriting was Thomas’s.
Margaret, if Mr. Bennett is standing in front of you with this letter, then I have failed at the one thing I wanted most—to give you more time.
My knees weakened.
Mr. Bennett caught my arm.
I kept reading.
Thomas wrote that I had returned to his life without asking for anything.
Not his house.
Not his accounts.
Not his wealth.
I had asked whether he still liked burnt toast and whether his knees hurt before rain.
Then came the part about Claire and Daniel.
Thomas knew they resented me.
But even after what they had done, he did not condemn them.
Daniel and Claire loved their mother. They believe loving you somehow takes something away from loving her. It doesn’t. But grief is strange arithmetic. People convince themselves the heart has only so much room.
