My hands were trembling.
I read the first line and the letter slipped out of my fingers.
For a few minutes I just sat on the edge of the bed and looked at it, not deciding to lift.
Michael died eleven months ago.
But I would have learned his handwriting among thousands of others.
In the thirty-two years of our marriage, he left me hundreds of notes. Sometimes they were lying on the refrigerator, sometimes next to a cup of coffee. He wrote congratulations, shopping lists, short reminders. And sometimes just left on a piece of paper only three words:
“I love you.”
It was impossible to make mistakes.
This letter was written by Michael.
It started like this:
“Linda, if you’re reading this letter now, then Susan has finally decided to tell you the truth—the truth in which I myself have had the courage to confess my whole life.”
