I don’t remember deciding it. We simply didn’t speak. Life continued just a few steps away, while mine split open. We slipped into a small side room. Empty chairs. A coat rack. A window cracked open for air. Robert shut the door.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat. My legs barely held me. Robert stood in front of me, holding the envelope as if it were dangerous.
“Promise me something first,” he said.
“What?”
“Promise you won’t interrupt. Not until I’m finished.”
I nodded. He broke the seal. The paper inside was carefully folded, the handwriting neat and achingly familiar.
“It starts like a farewell,” Robert said softly. “She wrote it knowing she wouldn’t be there to explain.”
He took a steadying breath and began to read.
“My sweet children. If you’re reading this, then my fears were true. And it also means I didn’t live long enough to protect you myself.”
I clamped a hand over my mouth.
“I didn’t tell you while I was alive because I didn’t want my final months consumed by conflict. I was already exhausted. I was already in pain. I wanted my last days to be filled with love, not spent exposing betrayals.”
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