decade, I’d carried a quiet guilt whenever I did something that would’ve been impossible if Robert were alive.
Selling the house.
Traveling alone.
Enjoying myself.
Part of me had wondered whether moving forward meant leaving him behind.
And there he was, in his own handwriting, telling me to go.
I’d carried a quiet guilt.
***
Arthur and I sat talking until the coffee grew cold.
He told me stories about Robert that I’d never heard.
Robert falling asleep during a jazz concert, getting lost while insisting he knew exactly where he was, and trying to cook fish over a campfire before dropping it in the dirt.
“That sounds like him,” I said, giggling.
He told me stories about Robert.
Arthur smiled.
“Your husband talked about you constantly near the end.”
That surprised me. Then something dawned on me.
“You knew I existed before we met.”
“Of course.”
“Then, when we met
