The phone slipped from my hand.
Images flooded back all at once—Charles standing in our kitchen every morning making coffee the same way for fifty years… his quiet laugh… the way he always reached for my hand in the dark. Even the things I hated—the controlling, the stubbornness—suddenly felt small. Cruel, even.
My anger from the café dissolved into a weight so heavy I couldn’t breathe.
I never got to say goodbye.
Later that evening, my daughter drove me to the hospital to collect his belongings. His watch. His wallet. And folded carefully inside an envelope labeled with my name… a handwritten letter.
“I know I was never good at listening. I tried to lead when I should have followed. But loving you was the one thing I never questioned. Even after the papers were signed, you were still my wife in my heart. I hope someday you forgive me. I already forgave myself for letting you go—because seeing you free mattered more than keeping you.”
I sank into the hallway chair and sobbed like a woman half my age.
