“And?”
He looked at the copper wire.
“Every time I saw that ring, I couldn’t do it.”
I followed his eyes.
“This?”
“You still wore it.”
“Yes.”
“After thirty years.”
“Yes.”
“Forty.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you’d built a life around remembering him.”
“I built a life.”
“I know.”
Walter lowered his head.
“But I was afraid that handing you that letter would tear open something you’d learned to carry.”
“That should have been my decision.”
“I know.”
“And you still haven’t answered one thing.”
He looked up.
“Why today?”
Walter’s face changed.
I knew before he said it that the answer was bad.
“My doctor says I have pancreatic cancer.”
I stared at him.
“He thinks I have a few months.”
The anger inside me suddenly collided with something else.
Fear.
Pity.
Grief for a man I barely knew and apparently had known for decades without realizing it.
