For a second, I wanted to demand an answer.
Then I remembered that the rest of Larry’s letter was still inside my purse.
He had specifically told me to visit the courthouse first.
He wanted me to see those records.
The hundreds of witness signatures.
Our marriage certificate.
The word spouse.
I left the courthouse and took the subway home.
But when the train reached Larry’s old station, I stepped off.
The woman at the coffee kiosk recognized me immediately.
“Two?”
For a second, I nearly said no.
Then I looked toward Larry’s empty place beside the station entrance.
“Yeah.”
She handed me my coffee with cream.
And Larry’s black coffee.
I carried both cups outside and sat in his usual spot.
In two years, I had never stayed there long enough to finish an entire cup.
I placed Larry’s coffee beside me.
Then I unfolded the next page of his letter.
At the top, he had written:
“I didn’t need a wife to make my life matter, Sarah.”
Underneath that was another sentence.
“But I wanted to know, just once, what it felt like to have somebody choose that word with me.”
I stopped reading.
Steam rose from the black coffee beside me into the cold air.
Then I continued.
“I knew that if I had told you the truth, you might still have said yes.”
My eyes filled with tears.
I whispered, “Then why didn’t you?”
Larry’s answer was written directly beneath it.
“Because then I would have had to listen while you decided whether loneliness was a good enough reason.”
Suddenly, two years of mornings with Larry looked different.
The next line read:
