During our thirty-two years of marriage, he had left me hundreds of little notes on the refrigerator, written birthday cards, grocery lists, and sometimes just two words:
I love you.
There was no possibility I was mistaken.
Michael had written that letter.
It began:
Linda, if you are ever reading this, it means Susan has finally decided to tell you what I never had the courage to tell you myself.
My heart began pounding.
I kept reading.
Michael wrote that during the twentieth year of our marriage, he had done something he had never forgiven himself for.
That was the year I spent months caring for my sick mother. I stayed at her house most of the week.
I remembered that period clearly.
Susan was going through a difficult time too. Her marriage had just ended. She often came to our house. Sometimes I was the one who asked her to stop by and see Michael, bring him dinner, or simply keep him company.
