beach alone.
The tide was low.
Seagulls circled above the water.
I walked along the shoreline carrying Robert’s letter in my pocket.
I thought about our marriage.
About all the things we’d shared.
About the things we’d never said.
For months after his death, I’d been remembering him as though he were perfect.
The perfect husband.
The perfect friend.
The
man who always knew what to do.
But he hadn’t been perfect.
He’d made a choice that hurt me.
He’d kept Susan’s confidence because he believed he was protecting her.
And perhaps he’d underestimated how much I would have wanted to help.
I sat on the sand and read his letter again.
I should have encouraged her more firmly to trust you.
That sentence mattered.
He hadn’t tried to excuse himself.
He’d acknowledged that his decision was imperfect.
And somehow, that made him feel more real to me.
I folded
