Mr. Harrison laughed.
Then his voice softened.
“This one is different.”
My smile faded.
“How?”
“He asked me to give it to you on your forty-ninth wedding anniversary.”
I stopped breathing.
That anniversary was only three weeks away.
The first one without Thomas.
I had deliberately kept the day free.
I didn't know whether I wanted to spend it alone or surrounded by people.
Now another message waited.
“What's inside?” I whispered.
“I haven't opened it.”
“Did Thomas tell you?”
“No.”
A pause.
“But he cried when he gave it to me.”
My heart tightened.
“Then I'll come on the anniversary.”
The morning of our forty-ninth anniversary dawned bright and clear.
I woke before sunrise.
For a moment, I forgot.
I reached across the bed.
My hand found an empty pillow.
And grief rose so suddenly that I cried before I was fully awake.
I stayed there for a long time.
