I withdrew from the gathered mourners and found a solitary bench shaded by an aging oak tree behind the building. My fingers trembled as I unsealed the envelope. A single sheet of paper rested inside, covered in Caleb’s familiar, uneven handwriting.
Mom,
If you are reading these lines, then I am likely gone. I am so sorry. I know you will place the blame on your own shoulders, but please don’t. You did everything within your power for me—far more than anyone could ever expect.
Yet there is something you must understand regarding the girl who now carries my heart. Her name is Emily. And I believe you have crossed paths with her before.
My breath caught in my throat. I scanned that sentence again. I believe you have crossed paths with her before. I hadn’t. Or at least, I was certain I hadn’t. I kept reading.
You won’t recall her because she was merely a little girl back then. But I remember. And there is a detail I never shared with you concerning the night Dad died.
Tears blurred my vision at the mention of my late husband, David. Caleb almost never brought up his father’s passing. David had died when Caleb was only nine years old in a single-vehicle accident on a slick, rainy night. That was the explanation I had held onto for two decades: a tragedy on his way home from work. Caleb had survived that night only because he was visiting his grandmother.
