I kept reading. I didn’t read every letter, not yet, but enough to feel our marriage opening in fragments.
Year Four: the mailbox I hit and blamed on sunlight.
Year Eight: the loss we barely named, and the pink blanket I packed away for a newborn who’d never come.
Year Fifteen: the bakery lease I nearly signed before the numbers turned cruel.
Year Nineteen: his mother living with us, and me being, apparently, “a saint in orthopedic shoes.”
I hadn’t known he’d kept that moment all those years.
By then, I was crying for real: hot-faced, messy, and angry crying.
“How long were you writing these, Anthony?” I asked the empty car.
The ring box sat in my lap like a second pulse. I stared at it for a long moment before I flipped it open.
Inside was a gold band with three small stones. It was simple, elegant, and completely… me.
“No,” I whispered. “No… Tony.”
Tucked beneath the ring was a card from a jeweler dated six months ago.
The ring box sat in my lap like a second pulse.
Our twenty-fifth anniversary was three weeks away.
I could see Anthony suddenly, standing in our kitchen in that old blue sweater, pretending to be casual while burning toast and asking, “So… how do you feel about doing something big for 25?”
And me, rinsing a mixing bowl, snorting. “Anthony, we’re not renting a horse-drawn carriage, honey.”
He’d laughed. “You always assume my ideas are crazy and expensive.”
“Because they usually are.”
Now, I pressed the heel of my hand to my mouth.
