For Margaret’s next chapter. Not the kids. They have their own chapters.
My tears fell freely now.
I was not crying because of money.
I was crying because Robert had imagined me having a next chapter.
I had not.
For nearly two years I had thought of my life as an afterword.
Something brief following the main story.
Robert had believed otherwise.
Gregory came out twenty minutes later carrying two fresh cups of coffee.
He placed mine beside me.
“You want to tell me?”
I handed him the letter.
He read quietly.
At the line about the saxophone player, he laughed.
At the line about love becoming availability, his face changed.
When he finished, he folded the pages carefully.
“Dad really wrote this?”
“You recognize the handwriting.”
“Yeah.”
He looked toward the yard.
“He knew.”
“Yes.”
“I feel awful.”
“That wasn’t why he wrote it.”
“I know.”
He rubbed both palms over his face.
