He had written that if this day ever arrived, I might believe he was losing his home.
But he wanted me to remember that our home had never truly been the house.
It had always been us.
If he moved somewhere else, I was supposed to bring myself when I visited.
Not the exhausted version.
Not the woman surviving on coffee and crackers.
Not the woman apologizing for being tired.
Me.
The wife who sat beside him.
The woman who watched old movies with him.
The person who teased him.
The woman he married.
He told me to go home afterward.
Eat.
Sleep.
Live.
He promised that wherever his bed happened to be, he would still know where home was.
Then, at the bottom, he had added one final line.
If he ever complained about any of this, I should remind him that the letter had been written when he was still smarter than both of us.
I laughed so loudly that he woke up.
“What?”
I walked into the bedroom holding the letter.
“You were unbearable seven years ago too.”
David smiled.
“At least I’m consistent.”
Part 4 — Four Days Until Everything Changed
We told Janet that evening.
More accurately, I told her I had accepted the room at Meadow Ridge.
She immediately started crying.
Then she apologized for crying.
Then I cried because she was crying.
David watched the two of us for a minute before announcing that apparently he was now the emotionally stable member of the family.
That made us both laugh.
Janet sat beside him and took his hand.
“Dad, are you scared?”
David didn’t pretend.
That mattered to me.
He nodded.
“Very.”
“Do you still think you should go?”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he glanced at me.
“I think your mother should stop looking like she hasn’t slept since Christmas.”
I tossed a pillow at him.
Gently.
Janet laughed.
Then David became serious.
“And yes. I still think it’s the right thing.”
The move was scheduled for four days later.
I packed slowly.
The gray sweater.
No blue plaid.
His watch.
Three framed photographs.
His shaving kit.
His favorite mug.
Several detective novels he had already read at least six times.
I folded every shirt as if proper folding could somehow make this less painful.
Then I picked up the letter.
My first instinct was to put it back into his nightstand.
