Richard was already there.
He sat near the window with both hands around a coffee cup.
For a moment, I did not recognize him.
He had lost weight.
His shoulders seemed narrower.
His hair, once dark, was almost completely gray.
Then he looked up.
The expression in his eyes was the same.
“Ellen.”
I sat across from him.
“Richard.”
Neither of us smiled.
The waitress came over.
He ordered coffee.
I ordered tea.
When she left, Richard looked at me.
“You look well.”
“I am.”
“I’m glad.”
“I've been taking care of myself.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
I almost laughed.
“You really do say that a lot.”
“I've earned the criticism.”
“Yes.”
He looked down.
“I don't expect you to make this easier for me.”
“Good.”
“I deserve whatever you feel.”
“I don't know what I feel.”
“That may be worse.”
“It isn't.”
We sat in silence.
Finally I asked, “Did you ever regret leaving?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The first night.”
I looked at him.
“Then why didn't you come back?”
“Pride.”
I shook my head.
“That simple?”
“No.”
He looked toward the window.
“Shame. Pride. Fear. All of it.”
“You could have called.”
“I thought you would hate me.”
“I did.”
“I know.”
“You could have apologized.”
“I didn't think an apology would change anything.”
“It might have changed the way I remembered you.”
He absorbed that.
“I wish I had understood that sooner.”
The waitress brought our drinks.
Richard waited until she left.
“I hurt you in ways I can't repair.”
“Yes.”
“I know the money doesn't fix it.”
“No.”
“The cottage doesn't either.”
“No.”
“I wasn't trying to buy forgiveness.”
“I believe you.”
That seemed to surprise him.
“Thank you.”
I looked at him.
“Don't thank me yet.”
A faint smile appeared.
“There she is.”
“What?”
“The woman who used to tell me exactly what she thought.”
“I never stopped.”
“You did.”
“I learned to be quiet.”
He nodded.
“That was my fault.”
We talked for nearly two hours.
He told me about the months after the divorce.
He had rented an apartment.
He had traveled.
He had tried to build another life.
None of it had felt the way he expected.
Then the illness came.
The diagnosis had changed his sense of time.
“I started looking backward,” he said.
“At us?”
“At everything.”
He told me he had gone through old files.
Tax records.
Company records.
Photographs.
Letters.
He realized how much of his success had depended on things he had never valued properly because they had been invisible.
“You kept everything running,” he said.
“I know.”
“I didn't.”
“No.”
“I thought because I earned the money, I had earned the success.”
I looked at him.
“Money was never the whole thing.”
“I know that now.”
We drank our coffee.
Then he said something unexpected.
“I was jealous of you.”
I frowned.
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you knew how to belong somewhere.”
I stared at him.
“You had the children. The house. The routines. People needed you.”
“You were needed.”
“Not in the same way.”
I considered that.
“Richard, I never wanted you to feel unnecessary.”
“I know.”
“I wanted you home.”
“I know.”
He looked down.
“That was the problem.”
“What?”
“I thought being wanted meant being trapped.”
I shook my head.
“You were never trapped.”
“I understand that now.”
The café had become busier.
People came in for lunch.
Children ran between tables.
Life continued around us.
I found that comforting.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“To what?”
“To the money.”
“It stays yours.”
“The cottage?”
“Yours.”
“And us?”
He looked at me for a long time.
“I don't know.”
That was the most honest answer he could have given.
I nodded.
“I don't either.”
He reached into his coat pocket.
For a second, I thought he was going to give me another card.
Instead he took out a photograph.
He slid it across the table.
It was the wedding photograph.
The same one I had found at the cottage.
“I thought you might want this.”
I picked it up.
“Why do you have a copy?”
“I made one before giving you the original.”
I smiled faintly.
“Of course you did.”
He looked at me.
“Ellen?”
“Yes?”
“I loved you.”
I looked at the photograph.
“I know.”
“I still do.”
I closed my eyes.
That was harder to hear than I expected.
“I can't give you the marriage back.”
“I don't want you to.”
“Then what do you want?”
“A chance to tell you the truth.”
“You're doing that now.”
“Yes.”
We sat quietly.
When we finally left the café, neither of us knew whether there would be another meeting.
There was.
Then another.
Not romantic.
Not at first.
We met in public places.
We talked about the children.
We talked about the business.
We talked about the years we had lost.
Sometimes we argued.
Once, I stood up and walked out because he said something that sounded like an excuse.
He did not follow me.
The next day, he called.
“You were right.”
“About what?”
“I was trying to explain myself instead of admitting that I hurt you.”
I appreciated that.
The meetings became easier.
Richard's illness worsened.
His voice grew weaker.
He began using a cane.
One afternoon, he asked me to visit the cottage with him.
“I want to see it once more.”
I agreed.
We drove there together.
The lake was calm.
The trees had begun changing color.
We sat on the porch.
“I always thought this place would be ours,” he said.
“You never told me.”
“I was afraid.”
“You were afraid of everything.”
“Yes.”
I smiled.
“That was one of your problems.”
“I know.”
We laughed.
It was the first time we had laughed together in years.
Then Richard reached into his pocket.
He handed me a small key.
“What is this?”
“The cottage key.”
“I already have one.”
“This one is different.”
I looked at him.
“It opens the desk drawer upstairs.”
I frowned.
“There’s something inside.”
“What?”
“A notebook.”
I went upstairs.
The desk was old.
I unlocked the drawer.
Inside was a black notebook.
I opened it.
The first pages contained numbers.
Deposits.
Expenses.
Dates.
Then, farther in, I found handwritten notes.
Not business notes.
My name appeared repeatedly.
Dates.
Memories.
Things Richard remembered about me.
The first time I laughed after Patricia was born.
The color of the dress I wore when David graduated.
The soup I made when Karen was sick.
The way I used to tap my fingers against the steering wheel when I was nervous.
The books I liked.
The places I wanted to visit.
Things I had forgotten he ever noticed.
At the bottom of one page was a sentence.
I spent thirty-seven years being loved by a woman who noticed everything, and I spent too many of those years pretending I was the one who carried the family.
I closed the notebook.
Richard was standing in the doorway.
“You wrote all this?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After the divorce.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid I would forget.”
I looked at him.
“You won't forget.”
He smiled.
“I don't think I will.”
That evening, before we left, he asked me to promise something.
“What?”
“That you won't spend the rest of your life taking care of everyone except yourself.”
I looked at the lake.
“I can't promise that.”
“Try.”
“I'll try.”
He nodded.
“That’s enough.”
Three weeks later, Richard was admitted to the hospital.
Karen called me.
“He asked for you.”
I went.
He was asleep when I arrived.
I sat beside the bed.
For a long time, I watched him breathe.
He woke after sunset.
“You came.”
“Yes.”
“I wasn't sure you would.”
“Neither was I.”
He smiled.
“I’m glad.”
I held his hand.
It felt smaller than I remembered.
We did not talk about the divorce.
We did not talk about the money.
We simply sat there.
After a while, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I looked at him.
“I know.”
“I should have said it years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Are you still angry?”
“Yes.”
He smiled faintly.
“That sounds right.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I forgive you.”
His eyes opened.
I continued before he could speak.
“Forgiving you doesn't mean what happened was acceptable.”
“I know.”
“It means I don't want to carry it anymore.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Thank you.”
I shook my head.
“Don't thank me.”
He smiled.
“All right.”
I stayed until morning.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Last Thing Richard Left Me Was Not the Money, the Cottage, or the Apology, but a Choice About How I Would Live After Him
The Card He Put Into My Hand After Thirty-Seven Years Was Worth Three Thousand Dollars, and I Refused to Find Out Why
Part 7 of 8
