Then Anna reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a yellow envelope. My name was written across the front in handwriting I recognized more deeply than my own.

Evelyn’s.

My hands started shaking before I even touched it.

“Mom gave this to me before cancer took her,” Anna sobbed. “She told me to give it to you immediately, but I couldn’t. I was scared you’d stop loving me.”

“What are you talking about?”

Anna hesitated. “I thought you’d look at me differently after you read it, Dad.”

I opened the envelope while she stood across from me twisting her trembling hands together.

Inside was one folded sheet of paper, old and softened at the creases, the ink faded slightly but still sharp enough to wound.

“Thomas, I never left you,” it began.

My knees nearly buckled.

“What you’re about to read will change your life. And the first thing you need to understand is this: all these years, you’ve been bringing flowers to the wrong grave.”

I read the letter three times.

Then I read it again.

By the time I reached the final line, I was no longer standing inside the same marriage I had mourned for ten years.

I looked up at Anna, crying so hard she could barely breathe.

“Get your coat,” I said quietly.

The drive was one hundred thirty-five miles.