I laughed through tears.
Another.
Year Forty.
Margaret says we're becoming boring. Then she dances in the kitchen while washing dishes. I hope we never become too old for this.
My chest ached.
Each letter was a little window into our marriage.
Not the grand vacations.
Not the business success.
Not the fortune.
The ordinary days.
Thomas had written them down.
Every anniversary.
For almost half a century.
And I realized something.
He had kept one enormous secret.
But he had also spent his life noticing thousands of little things about me.
Neither truth erased the other.
Both were part of the man I'd loved.
At the bottom of the cabinet was one final photograph.
It showed me standing behind the counter of our first store.
I was twenty-four.
My hair was long and dark.
I wore a simple yellow blouse.
I was laughing.
Thomas had written on the back:
