Raymond stared at me with fury.

“You foolish old woman.”

I looked directly at him.

“No, Raymond. I am a woman who was deeply loved. There is a difference.”

He left without another word.

That spring, I moved into Thomas’s family home.

Every Sunday morning, I made a cup of black coffee, sat beside the window, and opened one of his letters.

I read them slowly.

Some told me about his work.

Others described the life he had imagined we might have shared.

Many simply said that he hoped I was happy.

For decades, I believed love had passed me by.

But it had not.

Love had waited fifty-six years for me to come home.

And even after Thomas was gone, it found one final way to wrap its arms around me.