But then I saw a different envelope at the bottom of the tin. It wasn’t from her father. The handwriting was messy, erratic. “To my husband, Oliver. To be read only when I am gone.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking under my weight. I didn’t want to read it. I didn’t want more lies. But I owed it to the sixty years we spent side by side. “My Dearest Oliver,” it began. “If you are reading this, I was too much of a coward to tell you.” “I was pregnant at 17. My father took him away before I could even hold him.” “They told me if I ever tried to find him, they would destroy his life.”
“When I met you, I was looking for a way to die. You gave me a reason to live.” “I didn’t run to use you. I ran because you were the only safe place in my world.” Tears blurred my vision. She hadn’t used me. She had been drowning, and I was her air.
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