house.
My hands started shaking again.
“How long were you two writing?”
“On and off for decades.”
I looked at Arthur.
“Robert never told me.”
That hurt.
My hands started shaking.
Arthur saw it.
“He wasn’t hiding an affair, Abigail.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You thought it.”
I almost laughed. He was right.
Arthur explained that after Robert returned to the United States, they wrote occasionally.
Then life became busy.
“You thought it.”
Marriage, children, and work.
Years passed between letters.
But when Robert became ill, he found Arthur online through an old friend.
They started writing again.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
Arthur looked at his hands.
“Because most of what he wrote was about you.”
That stopped me.
Robert became ill.
“Me?”
He nodded.
Arthur took out one envelope.
“He sent this with the painting.”
He handed it to me. The envelope was sealed.
My name was written
