“Stop telling boring stories.”
“Why do you still keep Dad’s things?”
“Move on already.”
I swallowed it. Smiled through it. Told myself I was sensitive. Told myself they were stressed.
But tonight—Shut up, widw*—something inside me cracked.
My tea cup shook. Drops splashed onto my nightgown.
I set it down and went to the dresser. The top drawer creaked open. Beneath sweaters sat a mahogany jewelry box.
Inside: Humphrey’s letters. Dozens of them. He wrote every day when he traveled, even when phones and email existed, because—he used to say—real feelings deserve ink.
I pulled one out at random and unfolded the yellowed paper.
My dear Trix… I saw the sunset over the mountains today and thought of you… the pink sky before night… the way you wrinkle your nose when you laugh… you’re the bravest person I know, even when you think you’re a coward.
I folded it back, tears spilling freely.
Humphrey always saw courage in me that I couldn’t find myself.
Night thickened. I sat there letting memories pour over me like beads from a broken necklace—our first meeting at the library, his nervous proposal, Percy’s birth, Rosie’s first steps, graduations, weddings.
When did everything change?