Thomas stayed behind to keep the store running.
We spoke every night.
He told me he missed me.
He told me the apartment felt empty.
He mailed me silly postcards with little drawings of our cat.
And when I returned six weeks later, he'd met me at the bus station carrying yellow flowers.
I stared at Mr. Harrison.
“Six weeks.”
He looked confused.
“What?”
“I was away for six weeks.”
He nodded slowly.
I felt sick.
“Was that when it happened?”
He didn't answer.
And in that silence, I heard an answer I wasn't sure I could bear.
I stood abruptly.
“I need to leave.”
“Margaret, please.”
“No.”
I grabbed my handbag.
“I spent forty-eight years loving that man. I buried him four weeks ago. And now you're telling me he had a child with another woman while I was helping my dying mother?”
Tears spilled down my face.
“Do you know how many nights I cried because we couldn't have children?”
