The paper inside the envelope had yellowed at the folds.
Thomas watched me from across the sitting room, both hands resting on the head of his cane.
The house was silent except for the slow ticking of a clock above the fireplace.
I unfolded the letter.
Dear Eleanor,
I have gone to Chicago because my father collapsed at work.
I do not know how long I will be away.
I asked your father to tell you, but I do not trust that he will.
Please wait for me.
I meant what I said on the porch.
I still want you to be my wife.
At the bottom was a date from nearly fifty years earlier.
The day after Thomas had disappeared.
I read it twice before looking at the envelope.
Across the front, in faded red ink, someone had written RETURN TO SENDER.
MOVED.
NO FORWARDING ADDRESS.
“I never moved,” I whispered.
“I know that now.”
Thomas reached into the wooden box and removed another letter, then another.
Some were thin.
Others contained several pages.
Every envelope carried the same false message.
“I wrote every week for six months,” he said.
“Then once a month for two years.”
My legs weakened.
I lowered myself onto the edge of the sofa.
“My father told me you had changed your mind,” I said.
“He said you left because you were afraid of responsibility.”
Thomas’s mouth tightened.
“My father was ill.
The business was failing.
Your father believed I would drag you into poverty.”
A memory returned with painful clarity: my father standing in our kitchen, telling me that Thomas had chosen ambition over love.
He had placed one hand on my shoulder and said I would thank him someday for helping me see the truth.
I had cried for weeks.
Then I had trained myself not to mention Thomas’s name.
“Why didn’t you come back?” I asked.
“I did.”
Thomas looked toward the front window.
“Your father met me on the sidewalk.
He said you were engaged to someone else and wanted nothing to do with me.
He warned me that appearing at your door would humiliate you.”
“I wasn’t engaged.”
“I learned that years later.”
His voice cracked, but he did not look away.
“By then, you were married to Charles.”
Hearing my husband’s name brought me back to the present.
I touched the wedding ring I still wore.
Thomas noticed.
“I never intended to interfere with your life,” he said.
“I heard you had a son.
I heard Charles treated you well.
That was enough for me.”
“He did treat me well.”
“I’m glad.”
