My attention was then drawn to the picture. Peter was seated in the grass, laughing toward the camera with a youngster on his lap, maybe three or four years old. It must have been Thomas. His face was crushed into Peter’s chest like he belonged there.
I then grabbed the tissue paper.
I closed my eyes and cradled the photo to my chest.I wish you’d told me, Peter. But I understand why you didn’t, my sweetheart.”
That night, I placed the letter beneath my pillow, just way I used do with love letters when hubby travelled.
I suppose I slept better than I have in years.
I closed my eyes and cradled the photo to my chest.
Michael was already waiting at the booth when I walked in the next day. He got up as soon as he spotted me, the same way Peter used to when I entered a room, always just a little too fast, like he might miss his chance otherwise.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me,” he said, his voice gentle, careful. “I wasn’t sure either,” I said. I slid into the booth, my hands folding neatly on my lap. “But here I am.”I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”
Up close, I could see it more clearly now, the form of Peter’s mouth, not quite the same, but close enough to rip something free in my chest. “He could have sent it earlier, Michael,” I asked. “Why hold onto something like this?”
I wasn’t attempting to be… challenging. I simply questioned why someone would hold off on providing closure to someone else. But Thomas didn’t know me at all. He must have received his instructions because he might have learned stuff about me from Peter.
Michael looked out the window as though the solution might be written there.Why didn’t you send the letter sooner?He was quite detailed. Not before to your 85th birthday. He scrawled it on a box, actually. My dad stated he even emphasised it.”
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