“I wish you’d told me, Peter,” I whispered into the darkness. “But I understand why you didn’t, my darling. I really do.”
That night, I tucked the letter beneath my pillow, just like I used to do with love letters when Peter traveled for work. Some habits never die.
I think I slept better than I had in years, maybe decades.
Michael was already waiting at our booth when I walked into Marigold’s the next day. He stood up immediately as soon as he saw me enter, the exact same way Peter used to when I walked into a room, always just a little too fast, like he might somehow miss his chance otherwise.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me,” he said, his voice gentle and careful.
“I wasn’t sure either,” I replied honestly. I slid into the booth slowly, my hands folding neatly in my lap. “But here I am anyway.”
Up close, I could see it more clearly now—the distinctive shape of Peter’s mouth, not exactly identical, but close enough to pull something loose and painful in my chest.
“He could have sent this letter earlier, Michael,” I said after a moment. “Why hold onto something like this for so long?”
I wasn’t trying to be difficult or accusatory. I just genuinely wondered why someone would wait to give another person closure, especially closure this profound.
Michael glanced toward the window as if the answer might somehow be written outside on the street.
“He was very specific in his instructions,” Michael explained. “Not before you turned 85. He wrote it on the box that held the letter, actually. My dad said he even underlined it multiple times.”
“And did your father understand why?”
“He said Granddad believed 85 was the age when people either close up for good and stop letting anyone in… or finally let go of everything they’ve been carrying.”
“That sounds exactly like him,” I said, letting out a soft laugh despite myself. “A little dramatic. A little too poetic for his own good.”
Michael smiled, his shoulders relaxing just slightly.
“He wrote a lot about you, you know? My dad showed me some of his journals.”
“Did he now?” I smiled despite the tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. “Your grandfather was the love of my life, Michael. The absolute love of my life.”
“Would you like to read what he wrote?” Michael asked, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a second folded page.
I didn’t reach for it immediately. Not yet.
“No,” I said quietly but firmly. “Talk to me instead, sweetheart. Tell me about your father. Tell me about Thomas.”
Learning about the family I never knew I had
Michael leaned back slightly in the booth, gathering his thoughts.
“He was quiet,” Michael began. “Always thinking about something or other, always lost in his own head. But not in a normal way, you know? It was like his thoughts completely consumed him. He loved old music, the kind you could dance to in bare feet on kitchen floors. He said Granddad loved it too.”
“He did,” I whispered, the memory flooding back. “He used to hum in the shower. Loudly, and absolutely terribly off-key.”
We both smiled at that, sharing a moment of connection through someone we’d both lost.
Then there was silence for a few minutes, the kind that didn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable at all.
“I’m so sorry he didn’t tell you about us,” Michael said finally, looking down at his hands. “About Thomas and me. That must have hurt.”
“I’m not sorry, sweetheart,” I said, surprising even myself with the words. “I think… I think he wanted to give me a version of him that was just mine, you know? Completely and only mine. I understand that now.”
“Do you hate him for it?” Michael asked hesitantly.
I touched the new ring on my finger; it had grown warm against my skin.
“No. If anything, I think I love him even more for it. Which is completely maddening when I think about it too hard.”
“I think he hoped you’d say exactly that.”
“Would you meet me here again next year?” I asked suddenly, looking out the window at the street where people hurried past with their everyday concerns. “Same time?”
“Yes. Same table, same booth.”
“I’d like that very much,” he said, nodding earnestly. “My parents are both gone now. I don’t really have anyone else in my life.”
I felt something shift in my chest, some door opening that I’d thought was permanently sealed shut.
“Then, would you like to meet here every week, Michael?” I heard myself ask. “Not just once a year, but regularly?”
He looked up at me with Peter’s eyes, and for a moment, I thought he might cry. But he just bit his lower lip and nodded again.
“Yes, please, Helen. I would really like that.”
