And the problem was, I couldn\u2019t think of anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d spent so long taking care of everyone else that I\u2019d forgotten what I wanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\n
My husband Richard died of a heart attack thirty-two years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It happened on a Tuesday in March. He was in the driveway, scraping ice off the windshield of his Buick so he could drive to the airport for another work trip. I was inside packing Daniel\u2019s lunch. I heard the scraper hit the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t remember much after that. I remember the ambulance lights on the snow. I remember Emma, who was twelve, standing in the doorway in her nightgown, holding her little brother\u2019s hand. Daniel was nine. He kept asking, \u201cIs Daddy going to the hospital? Is he going to be okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was thirty-eight years old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Richard was my first love. We met in college, at a dance I didn\u2019t want to go to. He stepped on my foot twice and apologized so many times that I finally laughed and said, \u201cIf you apologize one more time, I\u2019m leaving.\u201d He said, \u201cThen I\u2019ll just step on your foot again so you\u2019ll stay.\u201d We were married two years later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After he died, there was a small life insurance policy, and the house, and me. That was it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I worked. I taught all day, and then I tutored kids after school, and in the summers I worked at a day camp and graded summer school papers at the kitchen table until midnight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One night, Emma came downstairs at eleven o\u2019clock and found me asleep with my cheek on a stack of spelling tests.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom,\u201d she said. \u201cWhy do you work so much?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat up and wiped my face. There was a red ink smudge on my cheek. She laughed at it, but she didn\u2019t look happy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause I want you and Daniel to have everything you need, sweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd what about you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI have you two,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me for a long time, the way only a twelve-year-old girl can look at you when she knows you\u2019re not telling the whole truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she went back to bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\n
I kept notebooks. I always had. Spiral ones from the drugstore, the kind with the cardboard covers that get soft at the corners. I wrote down things the kids said, funny things my students did, recipes, dreams I had at night, lists of places I wanted to go someday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A few months after Richard died, I started writing letters to him in those notebooks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dear Richard, Daniel lost his first tooth at school today. He was so proud. He kept it in a little envelope and showed it to the mailman.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Richard, the furnace broke. I called your brother. He said he\u2019d come look at it, and then he didn\u2019t come. I miss you most when things break.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Richard, Emma got her driver\u2019s license. She backed into the mailbox. I didn\u2019t tell her you did the same thing when you were sixteen. I\u2019m saving that for when she needs it.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n One evening, Emma found me at the kitchen table writing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho are you writing to, Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYour dad, sweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She frowned. \u201cBut he can\u2019t read them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know,\u201d I said. \u201cBut writing to him makes me feel like he\u2019s still here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She didn\u2019t say anything. She just put her hand on my shoulder for a second, and then she poured herself some milk and went upstairs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I wrote to Richard for thirty-two years. I filled twenty-six notebooks. They\u2019re in a cardboard box in my bedroom closet, labeled in black marker. RICHARD.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I never dated again. People tried to set me up. A widowed dentist from church. A gym teacher from another school. I went to dinner with the dentist once. He talked about his boat for an hour and a half. I went home and wrote Richard a very funny letter about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For thirty-two years, I believed I\u2019d had a perfect love. Even if it had ended too soon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I believed it the way you believe the sun will come up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Three months after I retired, my doctor told me I had terminal cancer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d been tired for a while. I thought it was just retirement. I thought my body was finally catching up on forty years of sleep. Then I started losing weight without trying, and there was a pain under my ribs that wouldn\u2019t go away, and Emma made me go to the doctor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then there were scans. Then more scans. Then a biopsy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then a small room with a box of tissues on the table, which is how you know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dr. Patel was a kind man in his fifties with reading glasses on a cord around his neck. He\u2019d been my doctor for fifteen years. He took his glasses off when I sat down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMrs. Wilson,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m afraid it\u2019s not good news.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He told me what it was and where it had spread. I nodded like I was listening to a parent-teacher conference about somebody else\u2019s child.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCan you operate?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m afraid surgery won\u2019t cure it, Mrs. Wilson.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cChemotherapy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe can discuss treatment to manage your symptoms. To keep you comfortable.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Comfortable. That\u2019s the word they use when they mean the other thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow much time?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI can\u2019t give you an exact number.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPlease don\u2019t protect my feelings,\u201d I said. \u201cI taught third grade for thirty-nine years. I\u2019ve been lied to by experts. Just tell me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He sighed. He folded his glasses and held them in both hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe may be talking about months rather than years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thanked him. I actually thanked him. I shook his hand and said, \u201cThank you, Doctor,\u201d like he\u2019d just told me my blood pressure was fine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I walked out to the parking lot, got into my little silver Honda, put my hands on the steering wheel, and cried for almost an hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t turn the car on. I didn\u2019t call anyone. A woman parked next to me, looked over, saw me, and then looked away very quickly, the way people do. She got out and went inside. When she came back forty minutes later, I was still there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She knocked gently on my window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I rolled it down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she said. \u201cI just\u2026 do you need anything?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m fine. Thank you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked at me like she knew exactly what fine<\/em> meant in a hospital parking lot. She nodded and went to her car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat there another fifteen minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I drove home and made myself a grilled cheese sandwich, because I didn\u2019t know what else to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That evening, I couldn\u2019t sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I got out of bed and went to the closet and pulled down the cardboard box. Not the RICHARD box. The older one, underneath it. The one with my notebooks from before. From college. From the first years we were married.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat on the bedroom floor with my back against the bed and flipped through them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There were grocery lists. Phone numbers of people I couldn\u2019t remember. A pressed flower that crumbled when I touched it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And there, on a page from the year we got married, in my own young handwriting, with a little heart drawn next to it:<\/p>\n\n\n\n See Paris someday.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Richard and I had always dreamed of visiting Paris together. We talked about it the way young couples talk about winning the lottery. We\u2019d stand in front of the travel posters at the library. We bought a French phrase book at a garage sale for a quarter. Richard used to practice with it in the bathroom mirror. \u201cO\u00f9 est la biblioth\u00e8que?\u201d he\u2019d say, in the worst accent you\u2019ve ever heard. Where is the library. That was the only sentence he ever learned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But there was always a reason to wait. The house needed a roof. Emma needed braces. The car broke down. Next year, we\u2019d say. Next year for sure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then there was no next year.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I touched the faded ink with my fingertip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, Richard,\u201d I whispered. \u201cI guess I\u2019m finally going.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The bedroom was very quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI just wish you could come with me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The next morning, I called Emma.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She picked up on the first ring. She\u2019d known about the appointment. I\u2019d told her it was routine. She knew it wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom? What did they say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m going to Paris,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was silence on the line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m going to Paris, Emma.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom. What did the doctor say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n So I told her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I told her the way I\u2019d told parents things for thirty-nine years. Calmly. Simply. Without too many big words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She didn\u2019t say anything for a long time. I could hear her breathing. Then I heard her put her hand over the phone, and I heard a sound behind it that I knew she didn\u2019t want me to hear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When she came back, her voice was thick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay,\u201d she said. \u201cOkay. And Paris?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ve never been abroad,\u201d I said. \u201cNot once in sixty-eight years. Your father and I always meant to go. I want to go, Emma. I want to see it. Before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She was quiet again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then she said, \u201cThen you\u2019re going.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Just like that. No arguments. No Are you sure, Mom<\/em>. No What about your treatment<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I think that\u2019s when I realized my daughter had grown up into a better person than me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Daniel was a different story.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He came over that Sunday for dinner. He drove two hours from Columbus with his wife, Rachel, and their two boys. I made pot roast, because it\u2019s his favorite. I\u2019d told him about the diagnosis on the phone. He\u2019d been quiet. Daniel has always gone quiet when he\u2019s scared. He\u2019s just like his father that way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He didn\u2019t eat much pot roast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n After dinner, while Rachel took the boys out to the backyard, he helped me with the dishes. He washed. I dried. That\u2019s how we\u2019d always done it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEmma says you\u2019re going to Paris,\u201d he said, scrubbing a pot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI am.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAlone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom.\u201d He put the pot down in the water. \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t travel alone. Not now. What if something happens? What if you get sick on the plane?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen there\u2019ll be a plane full of people to help me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m serious.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo am I.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll come with you,\u201d he said. \u201cI can take a week off. Rachel\u2019s fine with it. I already asked her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I put down the dish towel and looked at my son. He was forty-one years old. He had gray coming in at his temples. He had his father\u2019s jaw and his father\u2019s habit of rubbing the back of his neck when he was worried, which he was doing right now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDaniel,\u201d I said. \u201cI taught thirty eight-year-olds how to behave during fire drills. Every year, for thirty-nine years. I can manage an airport.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He laughed, even though he didn\u2019t want to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s not the same thing, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know it\u2019s not.\u201d I picked up his wet hand and held it. \u201cBut I need to do this one by myself, honey. I don\u2019t know how to explain it. I\u2019ve never done anything by myself. Not really. I went from my parents\u2019 house to your father\u2019s house to being your mother. I\u2019ve never even eaten in a restaurant alone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNever?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWill you call me?\u201d he said. \u201cEvery day?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEvery day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd if you feel bad, you\u2019ll go to a doctor? You won\u2019t be stubborn about it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m always stubborn about it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll go to a doctor,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He sighed and went back to the pot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDad would\u2019ve gone with you,\u201d he said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s the whole problem.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I got my first passport. I had to go to the post office and have my picture taken against a white wall. The man behind the counter told me not to smile. I looked like a woman being arrested for shoplifting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I booked a modest hotel in a neighborhood I couldn\u2019t pronounce. It had a little picture of a balcony with red flowers on the website. I booked it for eight nights.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I bought a plane ticket. Dayton to Chicago, Chicago to Paris. I bought it on the computer at the kitchen table, and my hands were shaking so badly that I typed my credit card number wrong three times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When the confirmation email came, I printed it out and stuck it on the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like an apple that a student had given me in 1994.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood in the kitchen and looked at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I opened my notebook and wrote Dear Richard, I bought the ticket,<\/em> and I stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t know what to write after that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For the first time in thirty-two years, I didn\u2019t finish a letter to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On departure day, Emma drove me to the airport in Dayton. I arrived three hours early. She tried to talk me into one hour. I said three. We compromised on three.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She hugged me at the curb for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCall me when you land.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI will.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd Mom?\u201d She was holding both my arms. Her eyes were doing something strange. Like she was excited and nervous at the same time. \u201cJust\u2026 keep your heart open, okay? Whatever happens.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNothing.\u201d She smiled. \u201cIt\u2019s just a thing people say.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It wasn\u2019t a thing people said. Not people like Emma, anyway. But I was too nervous to think about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My first flight went to Chicago. It was short and bumpy. I gripped the armrests the whole time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In Chicago, I had a three-hour layover before the flight to Paris. I found my gate, B14, and I sat down, and I checked my passport.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I checked it again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I checked it again, because what if it had fallen out of my bag in the forty seconds since I\u2019d last checked it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n I checked my boarding pass. I checked the screen above the gate desk. PARIS CDG. ON TIME. I checked my boarding pass against the screen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A man sitting across from me, an older man with a cane, watched me do this about six times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFirst time?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs it that obvious?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ve checked that passport more times than my wife checks the stove,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd she checks the stove a lot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then a wave of weakness came over me. It started in my stomach and went up into my head. The gate and the people and the big windows full of airplanes all went soft and gray around the edges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I put my head down. I took a sip from my water bottle. I breathed slowly, the way the nurse had shown me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou okay, ma\u2019am?\u201d the man with the cane asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m fine,\u201d I said. \u201cJust tired.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I waited for it to pass. After a few minutes, it did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat there with my hands in my lap, and I thought, What are you doing, Margaret? You\u2019re sixty-eight years old and you\u2019re dying and you\u2019re sitting alone in an airport in Chicago. Daniel was right. This is foolish.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Then the loudspeaker crackled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMrs. Wilson. Passenger Margaret Wilson. Please come to the desk at your boarding gate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My stomach dropped through the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My first thought was that something was wrong with my ticket. That I\u2019d typed something wrong on the computer. That my passport picture looked too much like a shoplifter and they weren\u2019t going to let me on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My second thought was that something had happened to Emma. Or Daniel. Or one of the grandkids.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I grabbed my bag and hurried to the desk. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cExcuse me,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m Mrs. Wilson. Is something wrong with my ticket?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The young woman behind the desk, Jessica, looked up and smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot at all,\u201d she said. \u201cWe\u2019ve been waiting for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWaiting for me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSomeone arranged for this to be delivered.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n And she handed me the cream-colored envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho sent it?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m afraid I only have instructions to give it to you.\u201d She read the sticky note. \u201cThere\u2019s something you still don\u2019t know about this trip.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I opened the envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Inside was the old letter, folded in thirds. And underneath it, a small black-and-white photograph and a few pages of thin paper, stapled together, covered in French.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I unfolded the letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My darling Sparrow,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I had to put my hand on the desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nobody had called me Sparrow in thirty-two years. Nobody alive even knew he\u2019d called me that. Not even the kids. It was just ours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My darling Sparrow,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I finally bought that little apartment in Paris we always dreamed about. I wanted it to be your anniversary surprise. I can already see your face. You\u2019re going to talk for ten minutes straight and not let me get a word in, and I\u2019m going to let you.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n One day, we\u2019ll sit on the balcony together. I\u2019ll bring the coffee. You bring the phrase book.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n All my love, Richard.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n At the bottom was an address. A street name I couldn\u2019t pronounce and a number. Appartement 3.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The photograph showed a pale stone building with iron balconies, on a narrow street. Someone had drawn a little arrow in pen pointing to a window on the third floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The stapled pages had an official stamp on them and Richard\u2019s signature at the bottom, next to a date thirty-seven years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A purchase document.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy husband wrote this,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jessica was watching me. Her smile had faded a little.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you all right, ma\u2019am?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe died thirty-two years ago,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her face changed completely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh,\u201d she said. \u201cOh, I\u2019m so sorry. I didn\u2019t\u2026 they just told me to\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s all right,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s not your fault.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then a voice came over the loudspeaker. \u201cWe\u2019ll now begin boarding Flight 142 to Paris, Charles de Gaulle. Group one, please make your way to the gate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood there with the letter in my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Jessica touched my arm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMa\u2019am? That\u2019s your flight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I boarded carrying the envelope against my chest like it might fly away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I found my seat, 23A, by the window. I buckled my seatbelt. I put the envelope in my lap and unfolded the letter again and read it over and over while the plane taxied and took off and Chicago got small beneath us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I finally bought that little apartment in Paris we always dreamed about.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Richard had bought an apartment in Paris.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Thirty-seven years ago. Five years before he died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And he\u2019d never told me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d been his wife for fourteen years. I\u2019d balanced our checkbook every month at the kitchen table with a calculator and a pencil. I knew exactly how much money we had, down to the penny. We\u2019d argued for a week over whether we could afford a new washing machine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n How do you buy an apartment in Paris without your wife knowing?<\/p>\n\n\n\n And if he\u2019d bought it for me, then why had nobody ever said a word about it after he died? Not the lawyer. Not the bank. Not his company.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Where had it gone?<\/p>\n\n\n\n I boarded carrying one question, and it got bigger with every mile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Why had Richard hidden an apartment from me?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The woman in the seat next to me was a college student named Priya, going home to visit her grandmother in Lyon. She noticed me staring at the letter for the fourth hour in a row.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs that a love letter?\u201d she asked shyly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI think so,\u201d I said. \u201cFrom my husband.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s so sweet. Is he meeting you in Paris?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cHe died a long time ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She went pink. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEverybody keeps saying that today,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s all right. I\u2019m used to it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She offered me half of her chocolate bar. I took it. Then she put her headphones on and fell asleep against the window shade, and I was alone with my memories again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n During that flight, somewhere over the dark ocean, I remembered the early years of our marriage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Our first apartment was above a dry cleaner on Third Street. It always smelled like steam and chemicals. The radiator banged all night. We had one good chair, and we took turns sitting in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One winter night, we were lying on the floor of that apartment on a blanket, eating popcorn out of a mixing bowl, because we didn\u2019t have a couch yet. Richard was looking at the ceiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSomeday, Sparrow,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2019m taking you to Paris.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He called me Sparrow because I was always rushing around, talking a mile a minute. Hopping from one thing to the next. He said the first time he saw me at that dance, I talked so fast he only caught every third word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWith what money?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll figure something out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd where will we stay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOur own apartment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I laughed so hard I spilled the popcorn. \u201cOur own apartment? In Paris?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWith a balcony?\u201d I said, teasing him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He turned his head and looked at me very seriously.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cObviously,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d thought it was just one of those silly things young people say on the floor at night. Something you say because it feels good to say it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d never once thought he meant it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then came the bills. And the children. Emma, then Daniel. A house with a yard on Briar Lane. A mortgage. Car payments. Doctor bills.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Richard got a job with a company that sold industrial machine parts. Halvorsen Industrial. He was good at it. He could talk to anybody. Within a few years, they made him their sales manager for Europe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That meant trips. A lot of trips. Germany, Belgium, Holland.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And Paris. Mostly Paris.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He\u2019d come home with little gifts. A box of chocolates from a shop with gold paper. A silk scarf for me. A tiny Eiffel Tower keychain for Daniel that Daniel carried around for years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d be standing at the stove, and he\u2019d come in with his suitcase and kiss the back of my neck, and I\u2019d say, \u201cParis again?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe company\u2019s expanding, Maggie,\u201d he\u2019d say. \u201cThese trips help pay the mortgage.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know,\u201d I\u2019d say. \u201cI just miss you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI miss you too, Sparrow. Every minute.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d believed him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Of course I\u2019d believed him. Why wouldn\u2019t I?<\/p>\n\n\n\n He\u2019d be gone a week. Sometimes two. Sometimes three or four times a year. I\u2019d take care of the kids and the house and my classroom, and when he came back, I\u2019d be so happy to see him that I never asked many questions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sitting on that plane, with his letter in my lap, I started to wonder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Maybe he\u2019d been saving. Secretly. A little bit from every trip. Maybe he\u2019d been planning this huge surprise for years, and then his heart had stopped in the driveway before he could give it to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That would be just like Richard. Wanting to make a big grand gesture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That was the version I wanted to believe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But there was still the question I couldn\u2019t get past.<\/p>\n\n\n\n If he\u2019d bought that apartment for me, why hadn\u2019t anyone mentioned it after his death?<\/p>\n\n\n\n By the time my plane landed in Paris, the sun was coming up, pink and gold over gray runways.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Priya woke up and stretched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWelcome to France,\u201d she said. \u201cDo you know where you\u2019re going?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked down at the address on the letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI think I do,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d made a decision somewhere over the ocean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I wasn\u2019t going to my hotel first. I wasn\u2019t going to take a nap or unpack or eat breakfast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was going to that address.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The taxi driver looked at the address on the letter, nodded, and said something in French that I didn\u2019t understand. Then he drove like he was being chased.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I held on to the door handle and watched Paris go by through the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d seen it in pictures my whole life. I wasn\u2019t ready for it anyway. The old buildings the color of butter. The little caf\u00e9s with their tiny round tables out on the sidewalk. The bridges over the river. People on bicycles with long loaves of bread sticking out of their baskets, exactly like in the movies. I almost laughed out loud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Richard<\/em>, I thought. You\u2019d love this.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I remembered that he\u2019d seen it. Many times. Without me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The taxi stopped on a narrow street lined with trees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I got out and stood on the sidewalk with my suitcase.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The building was right there in front of me. The same as the photograph. Pale stone walls and iron balconies with curly black railings. There were red geraniums in a window box on the second floor. A little bakery on the corner, the smell of bread drifting down the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was exactly Richard\u2019s taste. He always loved old things. Old houses. Old cars. Old jazz records.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked up at the third floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a balcony. Two small chairs on it. A little round table between them. A pot of something green.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Someone lived there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The front door of the building was open. A man was carrying a bicycle out. He held the door for me without even looking at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I climbed the stairs. They were old wooden stairs, worn down in the middle from a hundred years of feet. My legs were heavy. I had to stop on the second landing and hold on to the railing and breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On the third floor, there was only one door. Dark blue, with a brass number 3.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood in front of it for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I knocked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Footsteps. A lock turning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The door opened, and an elegant woman about my age was standing there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She was tall and slim, with silver hair cut short and neat. She was wearing a cream sweater and gray trousers and small pearl earrings. She had reading glasses pushed up on her head. She looked like the kind of woman who\u2019d never once owned a sweatshirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBonjour?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHello,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. Do you speak English?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA little.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy name is Mrs. Wilson. Margaret Wilson. I\u2019ve come from America.\u201d I took a breath. \u201cI believe my husband owned this apartment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She frowned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I held out the letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She took it politely and glanced at it. Her eyes moved down the page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then they stopped at the bottom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At his name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I watched her face change. It happened in one second. The polite curiosity disappeared. Her mouth went tight. All the color left her cheeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked up at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She started talking very fast in French. I didn\u2019t understand a single word. But I didn\u2019t need to. I knew the tone. I\u2019d heard it from mothers at parent-teacher night when I told them their child was struggling. It was the sound of someone getting scared and angry at the same time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I interrupted. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, I don\u2019t understand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She stopped. She pushed the letter back into my hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou must leave,\u201d she said in English.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPlease, I only want to ask\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis is my home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not saying it isn\u2019t. I just\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She turned and went inside, leaving the door open. I heard a drawer open. She came back with a folder and pulled out some papers and held them up in front of my face. There was a stamp on them, like the one on the papers in my envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy name,\u201d she said, tapping it. \u201cMy apartment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI understand,\u201d I said. \u201cPerhaps you bought it from him? I\u2019m only trying to find out what happened. He died a long time ago, and I never\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her face hardened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLeave, please.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I saw it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Over her shoulder. Inside the apartment. On a wooden shelf by the window, between a stack of books and a little blue vase.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A framed photograph.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Richard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He was young in it. Younger than I\u2019d seen him in years. He was standing on a bridge with the river behind him, in a tan jacket I didn\u2019t recognize. His hair was blowing in the wind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He was smiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And he had his arm around the woman standing in front of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I just stood there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For a second, my brain went looking for a reasonable explanation, the way it does. Had she worked with him? He\u2019d traveled to Paris on business for years. Maybe she was a colleague. A secretary. A client. People take pictures at company events. People put their arms around each other in pictures.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWait,\u201d I said. \u201cDid you know my husband? Through his company? Halvorsen Industrial?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her face went completely white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then she slammed the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stared at that dark blue door with the brass number 3.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I could hear her on the other side. She wasn\u2019t walking away. She was standing right there, just like me. I could hear her breathing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho are you?\u201d I whispered to the door. \u201cAnd what was Richard doing here with you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I picked up my suitcase and started down the stairs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Halfway down, the dizziness hit me again. Worse this time. The stairs tilted. The walls went gray. I dropped my suitcase, and it banged down three steps, and I grabbed the railing with both hands and sat down hard on the step.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stayed there. I put my head between my knees. I breathed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In for four. Out for four.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n For the first time since Dr. Patel\u2019s office, I felt truly afraid. Not of dying. I\u2019d made a kind of peace with that in the hospital parking lot, or started to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was afraid that I wouldn\u2019t have the strength to find out the truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That I\u2019d come all this way, and my body would give out before I knew who that woman was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n After a while, the man with the bicycle came back. He saw me sitting on the stairs. He said something kind in French and picked up my suitcase and carried it down for me and then held my elbow the rest of the way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMerci,\u201d I said. It was the only French word I was sure of.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He smiled and patted my hand and went on his way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My hotel was a twenty-minute taxi ride away. It was small and clean, with a tiny elevator that fit exactly one person and one suitcase. My room was on the fourth floor, and it did have a balcony, with red flowers in a box, just like the picture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t go out on it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat on the edge of the bed in my coat and called Emma. It was early morning back in Ohio. She answered anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom! You made it! How was your flight? Did you see the apartment?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I froze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat apartment?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEmma?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, Mom,\u201d she said. Her voice had gone very small.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow do you know about it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a long pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause I arranged the envelope,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou did what?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom, let me explain\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEmma Louise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I hadn\u2019t used her middle name since she was fifteen and snuck out to a concert.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRemember when we cleaned out Dad\u2019s old things?\u201d she said quickly. \u201cBack in the spring? Before your retirement? When you finally decided to clear out the attic?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I remembered. It had taken us two weekends. I\u2019d finally given away his suits to the church clothing drive. I\u2019d kept his watch and his reading glasses and his old jazz records. Emma had asked if she could take his wooden box. A little cedar box he used to keep his cufflinks and tie clips in. It had sat on his dresser our whole marriage. I\u2019d said yes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI found his letter inside that wooden box,\u201d Emma said. \u201cThere\u2019s a little felt lining in the lid. It was coming loose. I went to glue it back down, and there was an envelope tucked behind it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd you didn\u2019t tell me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI wanted it to be a surprise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEmma, that letter is over thirty years old!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know, Mom. I know. But when you said you were going to Paris, it was like\u2026 it was like a sign. Like Dad wanted you to have it. I thought maybe Dad had left you something nobody ever discovered. Something wonderful.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid you check whether he still owned it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI tried, Mom.\u201d Her voice cracked. \u201cI really tried. I spent weeks on it. But the French property records were so confusing, and everything was in French, and I couldn\u2019t find a clear answer. I called a lawyer here, and he said he\u2019d need months and a lot of money to find out. And you didn\u2019t have<\/em> months, and\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo you sent me there anyway,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI thought Dad might have left you something wonderful,\u201d she said. \u201cThat\u2019s all. I\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought about Emma at twelve, standing in the doorway in her nightgown, holding her brother\u2019s hand, watching the ambulance lights on the snow. I thought about her bringing me that sheet cake. Do something you\u2019ve always wanted.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know you meant well, sweetheart,\u201d I said. \u201cBut I wish you\u2019d told me before I came here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI wanted it to be special,\u201d she said. \u201cThat\u2019s why I called the airline. They were so nice about it. I asked them to give you the envelope at the gate and say that one line. There\u2019s something you still don\u2019t know about this trip.<\/em> I thought it would be like a movie.\u201d She sniffed. \u201cBut Mom. What\u2019s wrong? You sound strange.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t want to tell her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I needed to know why that woman had looked so frightened when she saw Richard\u2019s name. And I couldn\u2019t carry it by myself in that little hotel room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So I told her. About the woman. About the slammed door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And about the photograph on the shelf.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Emma went very quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe she bought the apartment,\u201d she said slowly. \u201cAfter Dad. And maybe she just\u2026 kept some old pictures? Things that were left there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy would she keep your father\u2019s photograph, Emma? On a shelf? In a frame? For thirty-two years?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNeither do I,\u201d I said. \u201cBut I\u2019m going back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom, please. Please don\u2019t upset yourself. You\u2019re not well. Just enjoy Paris. Forget the apartment. Forget I ever sent it. Please.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked out the window of my hotel room at the rooftops of Paris. Gray and silver, with little chimney pots like toy soldiers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEmma,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019ve spent thirty-two years talking to a photograph. I deserve a conversation with someone who can actually answer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That night, I couldn\u2019t sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I lay on the narrow hotel bed and listened to motorbikes buzzing past on the street below. I kept seeing that picture. Richard on the bridge, his hair blowing, his arm around her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I tried to remember if I\u2019d ever seen that tan jacket. I hadn\u2019t. I knew every piece of clothing that man owned. I\u2019d ironed all his shirts for fourteen years. I\u2019d sewn the buttons back on his coat. I\u2019d never seen that jacket in my life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Around three in the morning, I got up and opened my notebook to write to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Richard,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat there with the pen over the page for a very long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I closed the notebook without writing another word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The next morning, I bought flowers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a flower stall on the corner by my hotel, run by an old man with a white mustache. I pointed at some yellow roses and some little white flowers I didn\u2019t know the name of. He wrapped them in brown paper and tied them with string. I paid him too much. He tried to give me change. I shook my head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I took a taxi back to the narrow street with the trees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I climbed the stairs again. Slower this time. I stopped on every landing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I knocked on the blue door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The same woman opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked tired. Like she hadn\u2019t slept either. Her glasses were on her nose this time, not on her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When she saw me, she sighed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou again?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI told you\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not here to take your apartment,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She hesitated. Her hand stayed on the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t want it,\u201d I said. \u201cI promise you. I don\u2019t want your home. I don\u2019t want anything from you except to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She didn\u2019t close the door. But she didn\u2019t open it wider either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy husband was Richard,\u201d I said. \u201cRichard Hale. He died thirty-two years ago. A heart attack in our driveway. He was thirty-eight.\u201d I swallowed. \u201cAnd I\u2019m very ill. I have cancer. The doctors say I don\u2019t have much time left. I don\u2019t know how much. Months, maybe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her face changed again. Slowly this time. Her shoulders came down a little. Something in her eyes softened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI only want the truth,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s all I came for. I\u2019ve been wondering since the airport in Chicago. I don\u2019t want to die still wondering.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked down at the flowers in my hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy did you bring those?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause my mother taught me not to arrive empty-handed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n For a second, almost against her will, the corner of her mouth moved. She almost smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy name is Claire,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMrs. Wilson,\u201d I said. \u201cMargaret.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My heart sank all the way into my shoes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou know me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She took the flowers from my hands. She held them against her chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry about yesterday,\u201d Claire said quietly. \u201cWhen I saw you, I panicked.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause I thought you\u2019d come to take the apartment.\u201d She looked down at the yellow roses. \u201cAnd I was terrified you\u2019d discover the truth about Richard.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat truth?\u201d I said. My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. \u201cWhat are you hiding from me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She hesitated for a long moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then she stepped aside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCome inside,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The apartment was beautiful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That was the first thing I noticed, and I hated that I noticed it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was small, just one big main room with a kitchen at one end and a hallway leading to a bedroom. But it had tall ceilings and wooden floors that creaked and big windows full of morning light. There were books everywhere. Plants on the windowsills. A soft blue couch with a knitted blanket over the back. And the balcony, with its two little chairs and the round table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It smelled like coffee and old paper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was exactly the kind of place Richard and I used to dream about, lying on that blanket on the floor above the dry cleaner, eating popcorn out of a mixing bowl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire put the flowers in the blue vase on the shelf.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Right next to the photograph.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She picked it up and looked at it for a moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe loved this picture,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood in the middle of her living room with my purse in both hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid you work with Richard?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She shook her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen how did you know him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She put the picture down. She turned around to face me. She folded her arms across her cream sweater like she was cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRichard and I were together,\u201d she said, \u201cfor almost four years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I felt the room tilt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The floor seemed to slide a little under my feet, the way the stairs had the day before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTogether,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAs friends?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t mean to. My legs just did it. There was a wooden chair by the little dining table, and I sat in it, hard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFour years,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHis business trips brought him to Paris,\u201d she said. \u201cThat\u2019s how we met. I worked at a bookshop near his hotel. He came in looking for a French phrase book.\u201d She almost smiled again, then stopped herself. \u201cHe said his was falling apart. He said he could only say one sentence.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cO\u00f9 est la biblioth\u00e8que,<\/em>\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire stared at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cThat one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I put my hand over my mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The phrase book. The one we bought at a garage sale for a quarter. The one he practiced with in our bathroom mirror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He\u2019d used it to meet her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe was married,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My voice sounded flat and strange. Like someone else\u2019s voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI knew,\u201d Claire said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFrom the beginning?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFrom the second time he came into the shop. He showed me pictures of his children. Emma with her missing tooth. Daniel on a tricycle.\u201d She looked at the floor. \u201cHe talked about you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd you continued?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I had a terrible feeling, sitting in that chair, that the affair wasn\u2019t going to be the last secret Richard had kept from me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe bought this place for you?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFor us,\u201d Claire said. \u201cHe purchased it in his name.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe wrote that it was for me.\u201d I took the letter out of my purse and held it up. My hand was shaking. \u201cI finally bought that little apartment in Paris we always dreamed about.<\/em> That\u2019s what it says. For your anniversary.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire looked uncomfortable. She looked at the letter, and then away from it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know about that letter,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou knew<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot everything. But enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen why is this apartment yours?\u201d I said. \u201cYour name was on those papers you showed me yesterday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire went to the drawer and brought back the folder. She sat down across from me at the little table. She opened it and turned the papers around so I could see them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRichard transferred it into my name,\u201d she said. \u201cA few months before he died.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWait.\u201d I shook my head. \u201cHow would he know he was going to die? His heart attack was sudden. He was thirty-eight years old. He was scraping ice off his car.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire looked at me with something like pity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe\u2019d been having serious heart problems,\u201d she said. \u201cFor almost a year. There was something wrong with one of the valves. Something he was born with. He had pains in his chest. He fainted once, here, in this kitchen. I took him to the hospital. The doctors here told him he needed surgery. They warned him another attack could happen at any moment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stared at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe never told me,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe didn\u2019t want to worry you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I laughed. It wasn\u2019t a happy laugh. It came out of me like a cough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe didn\u2019t want to worry me,\u201d I said. \u201cHe had a broken heart, and a mistress, and an apartment in Paris, and he didn\u2019t want to worry<\/em> me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought about the last year of Richard\u2019s life. He\u2019d been tired. He\u2019d been quiet. He\u2019d started taking little pills he said were for heartburn. Once, he\u2019d sat down on the stairs halfway up and stayed there a long time, and when I asked him what was wrong, he\u2019d said, \u201cNothing, Sparrow. Just getting old.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He was thirty-seven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d believed him. I\u2019d believed everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen why did he give you the apartment?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe wanted to make sure I had somewhere to live,\u201d Claire said, \u201ceven if we separated. Even if something happened to him.\u201d She pushed a paper toward me. \u201cI had very little money. I lived in one room above the bookshop. He said if anything happened to him, he didn\u2019t want me left with nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at the papers. A date thirty-two years ago. October. Five months before the ice in the driveway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo that\u2019s why I never knew about it,\u201d I said slowly. \u201cThat\u2019s why the lawyer never mentioned it. That\u2019s why nobody found it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt was no longer part of his estate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat there and looked at the papers for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At least I finally understood what had happened to the apartment. That part made sense now. It was a clean, simple, legal fact, the kind of thing you could write down in a notebook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But everything else was falling apart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was beginning to wonder whether I\u2019d ever really known the man I\u2019d married. The man I\u2019d written twenty-six notebooks of letters to. The man whose picture I said goodnight to every night for thirty-two years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI can\u2019t believe Richard lied to me,\u201d I said. \u201cAll those years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire lowered her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she said. \u201cBut there\u2019s something else he never told you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My chair scraped on the wooden floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t think I can hear another thing,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPlease.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid he have another family?\u201d I said. \u201cIs that it? Are there children? Do my kids have a brother or sister walking around Paris?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d Claire said quickly. \u201cNo. Nothing like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She got up and went to the drawer again. She took out an envelope. A plain white one, old and worn soft at the corners.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe was going to tell you everything,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I laughed bitterly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDead men make wonderful promises.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire flinched like I\u2019d slapped her. But she didn\u2019t put the envelope back. She placed it on the table between us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis was written shortly before he died,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at it. There was handwriting on the front. Just one word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Those loops. That T crossed too far to the right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy do you have it?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause he gave it to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t pick it up. I couldn\u2019t make my hands do it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRead it,\u201d I said. \u201cPlease. I can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire sat back down. She unfolded the paper with careful fingers. She read it silently first. I watched her lips move a little. Her eyes went shiny.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then she cleared her throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe wrote that he couldn\u2019t continue living two lives,\u201d she said. \u201cThat he\u2019d been selfish. That he\u2019d been a coward.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGo on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe wanted to end our relationship,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd return to his family completely.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stared at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe was leaving you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen why didn\u2019t he tell me?\u201d I said. \u201cIf he was coming back to us? If it was over? Why didn\u2019t he just come home and tell me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe was afraid.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOf what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOf losing you,\u201d Claire said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe\u2019d already betrayed me,\u201d I said. \u201cHe\u2019d already lost me. He just didn\u2019t know it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire looked down at the letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe also wrote about the apartment,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat about it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She read for a moment, then looked up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe admitted that he\u2019d turned the apartment he\u2019d bought for you into our secret home,\u201d she said. \u201cHe said it was the worst thing he\u2019d done. Worse than the rest. He wrote that he wanted to tell you everything. All of it. And then, if you\u2019d ever forgive him, he wanted to finally take you to Paris. The real way. The way he\u2019d promised you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tears were coming into my eyes. I didn\u2019t wipe them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo the anniversary letter?\u201d I said. \u201cThe one Emma found?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe wrote that letter before our relationship began,\u201d Claire said softly. \u201cHe told me about it. He bought this apartment for you, Margaret. He really did. He\u2019d been saving for years. A little from every trip. He was going to bring you here for your anniversary and hand you the key.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen he met you,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She lowered her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I walked to the window. I looked out at the balcony. At the two little chairs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One day, we\u2019ll sit on the balcony together. I\u2019ll bring the coffee. You bring the phrase book.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo he turned our dream,\u201d I said, \u201cinto a place to meet his mistress.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd he never even gave me the letter,\u201d I said. \u201cHe hid it in his cufflink box. Under the felt. For five years. While he came here. To my apartment. With you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI think he was too ashamed,\u201d Claire said. \u201cTo give it to you. After.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I turned around.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid he tell you he was leaving? To your face?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes.\u201d She folded the letter carefully along its old creases. \u201cHe came here in February. One month before. He gave me this letter, and then he told me himself, sitting right there on that couch. I begged him to stay. I cried. I said terrible things. But he\u2019d made his decision. He said he\u2019d come back once more in March to bring me the last of the papers and say goodbye properly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n March.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Tuesday in March. The suitcase by the door. The ice on the windshield.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe was coming here,\u201d I said. \u201cThat morning. When he died. He was going to the airport to come here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire nodded slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI waited at the caf\u00e9 on the corner for six hours,\u201d she said. \u201cHe never came. I called his hotel. They said he\u2019d never checked in. Two weeks later, his company sent a letter to the bookshop. To all his European contacts. We regret to inform you.<\/em>\u201d Her voice broke. \u201cThat\u2019s how I found out. A typed letter to the bookshop.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThirty-two years,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI spent thirty-two years believing Richard was a faithful husband,\u201d I said. \u201cI wrote him letters. I told him about our children. I told him when Daniel got married. I told him when Emma had her first baby. I told him every single thing. And he was\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I couldn\u2019t finish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d Claire said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat back down in the wooden chair. I was so tired. My whole body felt like it was made of wet sand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid he love you?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She took a long time to answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI believe he did,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid he love me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe said he did,\u201d Claire said. \u201cAll the time. Even when it hurt me to hear it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I laughed through my tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cApparently,\u201d I said, \u201cRichard had a very generous heart.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire gave a sad little smile. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI hated you for years,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMe?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe chose you,\u201d Claire said. \u201cIn the end. He chose you, and the children, and that house in Ohio. I thought you had won.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stared at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWon what, Claire?\u201d I said. \u201cWon what<\/em>? A husband who lied to me? A husband who sat in my kitchen and kissed my neck and told me Paris was for the mortgage? Thirty-two years of mourning someone I didn\u2019t truly know? Is that what I won?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She didn\u2019t answer. She looked away, out the window, at the balcony.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI never thought about it like that,\u201d she said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNeither of us got an honest choice,\u201d I said. \u201cHe made all the choices. For both of us. He decided what I got to know. He decided what you got to have. And then he died and left us both holding the pieces.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We sat there for a while without talking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Down on the street, someone was laughing. A church bell rang somewhere far away. The yellow roses I\u2019d brought sat in their blue vase next to Richard\u2019s picture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Finally, I picked up my purse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThank you for telling me,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d Claire said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo am I.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I went to the door. My hand was on the knob when Claire said, \u201cMargaret.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I turned around.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She was holding out the white envelope. The one with her name on it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis should be yours,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019ve read it a thousand times. Most of it is about you anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at it for a long moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I took it and put it in my purse next to the other letter, and I walked out of the apartment that was supposed to be mine, and I went down the stairs very, very slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Outside, I walked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t know where I was going. I didn\u2019t care. I walked along the narrow street with the trees, past the bakery, past a caf\u00e9 where people were eating breakfast in the sun like nothing had happened. I crossed a bridge. The river was green and slow beneath me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I wondered if it was the same bridge from the picture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I walked until my legs gave out, and I sat down on a green bench in a little park with gravel paths. Pigeons came over, hoping I had bread. I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My illness was draining my strength. I could feel it, sitting there. Every day there was a little less of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And I\u2019d already wasted so much of my life mourning Richard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Thirty-two years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d turned down that gym teacher. I\u2019d gone home early from the dentist\u2019s dinner. I\u2019d stopped going to the teachers\u2019 Christmas party because I couldn\u2019t stand being the only one without a husband there. I\u2019d never gone on the summer trip to the Grand Canyon that the other teachers took. I\u2019d never learned to swim. I\u2019d never gone dancing again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Because I was Richard\u2019s wife. Even after he was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat on that bench for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n An old woman sat down at the other end of it, with a little white dog on a leash. She smiled at me. She said something in French. I smiled back and shook my head. She patted my knee anyway, like she understood something about my face, and then she and the little dog went on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That evening, back in my hotel room, I opened my notebook.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Not to write. Just to read.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I flipped through the pages. Then I opened my suitcase and took out the two other notebooks I\u2019d brought. The newest ones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Almost every page was about Richard. Or our children. Or my students.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Richard, the Henderson boy finally learned to read.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Richard, Daniel\u2019s boys are both playing T-ball now.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Richard, Emma\u2019s worried about her job.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Richard, I miss you.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Richard.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Richard.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I went through every page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was hardly anything about me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There were no pages where I wrote what I wanted. No pages where I wrote what made me happy, just me. No pages where I was the main character in my own life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d been writing a story for thirty-two years, and I wasn\u2019t in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I called Emma.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom? Are you okay? I\u2019ve been waiting all day. I didn\u2019t want to call and bother you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDad had an affair,\u201d I said. \u201cFor four years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a sharp breath on the other end of the line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat? With whom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe woman living in that apartment. Her name is Claire.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh my God. Oh, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe met her on his business trips. In a bookshop.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, Mom,\u201d she said again. And then her voice broke completely. \u201cThis is my fault. I sent you there. If I hadn\u2019t found that stupid letter\u2026 if I\u2019d just glued the lining back down and left it alone\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo, sweetheart,\u201d I said. \u201cNo. Listen to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She was crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou helped me learn the truth,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s not a bad thing. It hurts. It hurts more than anything. But it\u2019s the truth. And I\u2019d rather die knowing it than die believing in someone who wasn\u2019t real.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut you loved him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI did,\u201d I said. \u201cI really did. I spent thirty-two years writing letters to him instead of making new memories.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She was quiet for a while. I could hear her blowing her nose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd the apartment?\u201d she said finally. \u201cWhat will you do about it? Can we\u2026 can we get it back? Should I call a lawyer?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNothing,\u201d I said. \u201cI don\u2019t want it. It\u2019s legally hers. And even if it weren\u2019t, I wouldn\u2019t want to sit on a balcony where he sat with her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you\u2026 forgive her?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought about Claire\u2019s face when she said I waited at the caf\u00e9 on the corner for six hours.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought about her saying He showed me pictures of his children.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cI haven\u2019t forgiven Claire. She knew he was married. She knew about you and Daniel. She knew from the second time he walked into that bookshop. That\u2019s something she\u2019ll have to live with.\u201d I paused. \u201cBut I don\u2019t hate her, either. I don\u2019t have time to hate anyone, Emma. I\u2019m not going to spend my last months on that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen what about you, Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at the bedside table. My pill bottles were lined up in a little row. The anti-nausea ones. The pain ones. The ones for sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI spent my whole life putting everyone else first, Emma,\u201d I said. \u201cYour father. You and Daniel. Thirty-nine years of other people\u2019s children. I\u2019m not spending my last months doing the same.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo what will you do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked out the window. The sun was going down over the rooftops. Everything was turning gold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEnjoy Paris, sweetheart,\u201d I said. \u201cFinally. Just for me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n After I hung up with Emma, I called Daniel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He listened to the whole thing without saying a word. I could hear his boys yelling in the background, and Rachel telling them to quiet down because Grandma was calling from France.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When I finished, he was quiet for so long I thought the call had dropped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDaniel?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m here,\u201d he said. His voice was rough. \u201cI\u2019m just\u2026 Mom, I had that Eiffel Tower keychain until I was in college. I used to hold it at night after he died. I used to think about him in Paris, working so hard for us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know, honey.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWas any of it real?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought about that for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSome of it,\u201d I said. \u201cThe phrase book was real. The popcorn on the floor was real. The way he held you when you had the croup was real. He loved you two, Daniel. Claire said he talked about you constantly. He showed her pictures. Whatever else he was, he was your father, and he loved you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I said honestly. \u201cI think he loved me in the way he knew how. I just don\u2019t think it was the way I deserved.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He took a breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you want me to fly out?\u201d he said. \u201cI can be there tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cThank you, honey. But no. I want to finish this myself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay,\u201d he said. \u201cOkay, Mom.\u201d Then, after a moment: \u201cI\u2019m proud of you. I don\u2019t think I ever said that before. I\u2019m really proud of you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t say anything. I couldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I just held the phone against my ear and cried quietly, and he let me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Over the next few days, I explored Paris.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I took a river cruise on a long glass boat. A guide with a microphone explained every bridge in three languages. I sat by the window with a cup of hot chocolate and watched the city slide past, the stone walls and the willow trees and the people sitting on the riverbank with their legs dangling over the water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I visited museums. I stood in front of paintings I\u2019d only seen in textbooks, paintings I used to show my third graders on a projector. Water lilies. Starry skies. A woman with a mysterious little smile. I stood there until my legs hurt and then sat on a bench and kept looking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I ate pastries. Expensive ones, from a shop with gold letters on the window. Little round cookies in colors I\u2019d never seen cookies come in. A cream puff the size of my fist. A chocolate tart so rich I had to stop halfway and rest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On the third day, I walked into a restaurant by myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The waiter asked, \u201cPour combien?\u201d and held up fingers. How many?<\/p>\n\n\n\n I held up one finger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust me,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world and showed me to a little table by the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I ordered a glass of red wine and a bowl of onion soup with cheese melted on top. I sat there for two hours. I watched people walk by. I didn\u2019t read a book or look at my phone. I just sat there and ate my soup and drank my wine and watched Paris.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sixty-eight years old. My first meal in a restaurant alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was wonderful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On the fifth day, I passed a little shop near the river with scarves in the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a blue one. Not navy, not sky blue. Something in between. The color of the water just after the sun goes down. It was silk, and it moved in the breeze from the open door like it was breathing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I went in. I touched it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The woman in the shop told me the price.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was more than I\u2019d ever spent on anything for myself that wasn\u2019t a car or a winter coat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For thirty-two years, I\u2019d have put it back. I\u2019d have thought about Emma\u2019s braces or Daniel\u2019s college or the roof or the furnace. I\u2019d have thought, What do I need that for?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I bought it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t check the price twice. I didn\u2019t do the math in my head. I just handed the woman my credit card and smiled while she wrapped it in tissue paper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I wore it out of the shop. I wore it every day after that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There were bad moments too. I won\u2019t pretend there weren\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One afternoon, on the fourth day, the pain under my ribs got so bad that I had to sit down on the curb outside a church. A young couple stopped and asked if I needed an ambulance. I said no. I took one of my pills and drank half a bottle of water and sat there for forty minutes until it eased.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That night, I threw up twice and didn\u2019t sleep at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The next morning, I called Dr. Patel\u2019s office back in Dayton, the way I\u2019d promised Daniel. His nurse talked to me for twenty minutes and told me to rest for a day and adjusted one of my medications.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So I rested. I sat on my little hotel balcony with the red flowers, wrapped in a blanket and my blue scarf, and read a paperback mystery I\u2019d bought at the airport. I ate bread and cheese from the shop downstairs. I watched the pigeons on the rooftop across the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was one of the best days of the whole trip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On my second-to-last day, there was a note waiting for me at the hotel front desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The young man behind the desk handed it to me. \u201cA lady left this for you, madame. This morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was written on thick white paper, in careful, slanted handwriting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Margaret,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I don\u2019t expect anything from you. I only wanted to say that I put your roses on the balcony, in the sun, and they are still alive. I took down the photograph. I have kept it for thirty-two years, and I think now that I was keeping a man who did not really exist either.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I hope Paris is kind to you. You deserve that it is.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Claire.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I read it twice standing at the front desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I folded it and put it in my purse with Richard\u2019s two letters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t write back. I didn\u2019t go to see her again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I didn\u2019t throw it away, either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On my last evening in Paris, I sat on the little balcony of my hotel room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The sky was turning from orange to purple. Somewhere down the street, someone was playing an accordion, badly, the same four songs over and over. The city lights were coming on, one window at a time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d bought a new notebook that afternoon. Not a spiral one from the drugstore. A real one, from a stationery shop near the river, with a soft leather cover and creamy pages. I\u2019d also bought a pen. A nice one. Dark blue ink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I opened the notebook to the first page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For thirty-two years, every letter I\u2019d written had started the same way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Richard.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I held the pen over the page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought about Richard on the floor of our first apartment, saying, Obviously.<\/em> I thought about him in a bookshop, holding our phrase book, asking a pretty Frenchwoman for help with the one sentence he knew. I thought about him sitting on our stairs, telling me it was nothing, just getting old, while his heart was failing inside him and he didn\u2019t trust me enough to say so.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought about all twenty-six notebooks sitting in a box in my closet in Ohio.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And I thought about all the pages that weren\u2019t in them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I wrote:<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Me,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m sorry I kept you waiting so long.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Whatever time I have left, I promise to live it for us.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I put the pen down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat there on the balcony in my blue scarf and watched the lights of Paris come on, and for the first time in thirty-two years, I was glad I\u2019d come to Paris without Richard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Emma and Daniel were both waiting at the airport in Dayton when I got home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They weren\u2019t supposed to be. I\u2019d told them I\u2019d take a cab. They came anyway. Daniel had driven two hours from Columbus. Emma had left work early.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They were standing together at the bottom of the escalator. Emma was holding a bunch of grocery-store daisies. Daniel had his hands in his pockets and was rubbing the back of his neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When Emma saw me, she burst into tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom,\u201d she said, \u201cI\u2019m so sorry. I\u2019m so sorry I sent you there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cStop it,\u201d I said, and I hugged her right there at the bottom of the escalator, with people stepping around us. \u201cStop it. You gave me the best gift anyone\u2019s ever given me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBeing lied to<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe truth,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd a reason to go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Daniel put his arms around both of us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNice scarf, Mom,\u201d he said into my hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt was very expensive,\u201d I said. \u201cI didn\u2019t even check the price twice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He laughed. It sounded exactly like his father\u2019s laugh. For the first time, that didn\u2019t hurt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A week after I got home, I took down the cardboard box from my closet. The one that said RICHARD in black marker.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Twenty-six notebooks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Emma came over that afternoon. I\u2019d asked her to. We sat on the floor of my bedroom with the box between us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat are you going to do with them?\u201d she said. \u201cAre you going to\u2026 burn them?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d thought about it. I\u2019d thought about it a lot on the plane. Some grand gesture in the backyard fire pit, watching thirty-two years go up in smoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But it wasn\u2019t the notebooks\u2019 fault.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cThey\u2019re not really about him, Emma. Not really. Read some of them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She opened one. She read a page. Then another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDaniel lost his first tooth at school today,<\/em>\u201d she read out loud. \u201cHe showed it to the mailman.<\/em>\u201d She looked up. \u201cI remember that. He was so proud.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThey\u2019re about you two,\u201d I said. \u201cThey\u2019re about my students. They\u2019re about the furnace breaking and you backing into the mailbox. They were just addressed to the wrong person.\u201d I pushed the box toward her. \u201cThey\u2019re yours. Yours and Daniel\u2019s. Your whole childhood is in there. Every little thing. I want you to have it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Emma held the notebook in her lap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat about the letters he wrote? The two from Paris?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019d thought about that, too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThose I\u2019m keeping,\u201d I said. \u201cFor a while. Then you can decide.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She nodded slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then she put the notebook down and took my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMom,\u201d she said. \u201cWhat do you want to do now? With\u2026 with whatever time there is?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI made a list,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I took the leather notebook out of my nightstand and showed her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It started on the second page, right after Dear Me.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Learn to swim.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Go to the Grand Canyon.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Take a dance class.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Eat at the fancy Italian place downtown that I\u2019ve driven past for thirty years. Alone. Order dessert first.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Plant tulips. Even if I don\u2019t see them come up.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Tell the truth when people ask how I am.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Teach Daniel\u2019s boys to play gin rummy so they can beat their father.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Watch the sunrise on purpose.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Emma read the whole list. She laughed at some of it. She cried at some of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe Grand Canyon?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe other teachers went every summer for fifteen years,\u201d I said. \u201cThey always asked me. I always said next year.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Emma wiped her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay,\u201d she said. \u201cThen next month.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t get to everything on that list.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m telling you that honestly, because I promised myself in that leather notebook that I\u2019d tell the truth when people asked how I was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I got to a lot of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I learned to swim, sort of. At the YMCA, in the shallow end, with a twenty-two-year-old instructor named Tasha who was very patient and called me \u201cMiss Margaret.\u201d I can float on my back now for almost a whole minute. I\u2019m told this counts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I went to the Grand Canyon. Emma drove. Daniel and Rachel and the boys came too, in a rented van that smelled like French fries. I couldn\u2019t do much walking. They pushed me to the edge of the South Rim in a wheelchair, and I sat there in my blue scarf and looked out at all that open space, all those layers of red and orange and purple going down and down, millions of years of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Daniel\u2019s younger boy, Sam, who\u2019s seven, stood next to my chair and said, \u201cGrandma, it\u2019s so big<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt is,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you scared of it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cI used to be scared of a lot of things. I\u2019m not scared of this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I went to the fancy Italian place downtown. Alone. I ordered tiramisu before my pasta. The waiter raised one eyebrow at me. I raised one right back. He laughed and brought it out with a candle in it, even though it wasn\u2019t my birthday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I planted tulips along the front walk. Forty bulbs. Emma helped me because I couldn\u2019t kneel very long. We did it on a cold, bright Saturday in November, and our fingers got so numb we had to go inside and hold mugs of tea until they stopped hurting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ll see them,\u201d Emma said, looking at the dirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd if I don\u2019t, you will.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I taught Daniel\u2019s boys to play gin rummy. They beat their father three times in a row at Thanksgiving. He pretended to be furious. They\u2019ve never been happier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I still write in the leather notebook. Not every day. My hands shake more now, and some days I\u2019m too tired to hold the pen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But on the good days, I write.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Me, you floated for fifty-eight seconds today. Tasha clapped.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Me, Sam said the Grand Canyon looked like a giant birthday cake somebody dropped. He\u2019s right.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Me, Emma brought over the first notebook from the RICHARD box and read it out loud to you. You laughed so hard about the dentist with the boat that you had to take a pain pill.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Me, you told Mrs. Kowalski next door that you weren\u2019t fine today. You told her you were tired and scared. She sat with you on the porch for an hour. She brought soup.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Me, you wore the blue scarf to church, and three people asked where you got it. You told them Paris.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s the end of winter now as I write this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The doctors were right. Months, not years. I can feel it. I sleep a lot. Emma comes every afternoon. Daniel comes on weekends. Some days I\u2019m clear and some days I\u2019m foggy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But this morning, I woke up early. Before anybody. Before the sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I wrapped myself in a blanket and my blue scarf, and I took the leather notebook, and I went out on the front porch and sat in the old wicker chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And I watched the sunrise. On purpose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It came up pink and gold over the rooftops across the street. It was nothing like Paris. It was just Dayton, Ohio, with its power lines and its gutters and its gray March snow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was beautiful anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When the light reached the front walk, I looked down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There, in the frozen dirt along the path, where Emma and I had knelt in November with our fingers going numb, the first green tips of the tulips were pushing up through the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I opened the notebook on my lap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Me,<\/em> I wrote.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Look.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n THE END..!<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The envelope was cream-colored and heavier than it looked. The woman at the gate desk held it out to me with both hands, the way you\u2019d hand someone a gift. … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":138,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-260","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-truth-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/260","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=260"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/260\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":261,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/260\/revisions\/261"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/138"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=260"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=260"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/truthstoryusa.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=260"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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