“Yes.”
“Here?”
“Here. London. Paris. Once in Boston.”
Boston.
I remembered Boston.
Michael returned from that trip with a red scarf.
He told me he bought it during a layover because he missed me.
I wore it for twenty years.
I pressed both hands over my mouth.
David looked away.
“Did they love each other?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me again.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“Yes.”
The answer did not create a dramatic break inside me.
There was no loud collapse.
Just the quiet destruction of something I had believed was permanent.
Michael had spent his final months beside me.
A long illness slowly took away his strength.
I fed him when he could no longer hold a spoon.
I washed his hair.
I changed the sheets and slept in a chair beside his bed.
On his final morning, he squeezed my hand and said, “You were the best part of my life.”
I had believed him.
Part of me still did.
That was the most painful part.
“Why did it end?” I asked.
“Ruth said they chose their families.”
“How admirable of them.”
David flinched.
“They ended the relationship twenty-one years ago.”
“But continued writing?”
“For a while. The final letters were mostly apologies.”
“To each other?”
“Mostly.”
I looked at the envelope again.
“And this?”
“Michael wrote that one to you.”
“Why didn’t he give it to me?”
“I think he gave it to Ruth because he became afraid.”
“Afraid of me?”
“Afraid of losing you.”
I laughed bitterly.
“He risked losing me for eleven years.”
“I know.”
“No, David. You know what your wife kept from you. You do not know what my husband took from me.”
He accepted the words without defending himself.
Somehow, that made my anger more difficult to hold.
