“I’ve known you thirty-seven years.”
“That does not make this true.”
“No,” Wade said. “But Randall believed it.”
I looked back at the page.
I could hear Randall saying every line. Worse, I could hear myself answering him.
I would have managed.
Of course I would have managed.
People did difficult things every day because there was no one else to do them. I had raised two children through ear infections and broken bones and one memorable year when both of them seemed determined to fail algebra. I had cared for my mother after her hip replacement while working four days a week. I had sat beside Randall through pneumonia, kidney stones, and the terrifying midnight when his blood pressure dropped after minor surgery.
If he had told me he was dying while I was sick—
I folded the letter.
“No.”
Wade waited.
“He doesn’t get to make himself right because he guessed I would love him.”
