Because I remembered my kitchen three days after Michael’s funeral.
I had been wearing his old sweatshirt.
Susan made coffee.
I told her I didn’t know how to wake up every morning without him.
She sat on the floor beside me.
Held my hand.
Cried with me.
Now I understood that she had been grieving him too.
Privately.
Beside his wife.
“What kind of person does that?”
Susan’s lips trembled.
“A coward.”
At least she did not say a friend.
I looked at Emily.
She was crying silently.
Again, not her fault.
I picked Michael’s second envelope off the floor.
“What does he say?”
“I don’t know,” Susan said.
I looked at her.
“You expect me to believe he wrote me a secret letter and you didn’t read it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he sealed it in front of me.”
That sounded like Michael.
Control to the end.
