Thomas.
I pressed the letter to my heart.
For several minutes, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered:
“I love you too.”
Mr. Harrison brought out the cabinet.
It was small, made of dark oak, with an old brass lock.
I recognized it immediately.
Thomas had kept it behind the counter of our first store.
I'd almost forgotten it existed.
I inserted the key.
Turned it.
The lock clicked.
Inside were dozens of little objects.
A faded receipt from our first sale.
A photograph of our college graduation.
The label from our first shipment of household goods.
A postcard I'd sent Thomas during the weeks I cared for my mother.
A pressed yellow rose.
Our original wedding announcement.
And beneath those things—
forty-eight small envelopes.
Each one marked with a year.
I stared.
“Thomas…”
Mr. Harrison smiled through tears.
“He wrote one on every anniversary.”
My hands shook.
“Every anniversary?”
“Yes.”
