“I cannot give you back the years we lost,” I told her, my voice trembling. “But I can give you my honesty, my respect, and my hand to hold for as long as I am able.”
Anna was crying before I finished.
When it was her turn, she squeezed my fingers.
“I don’t need the life we might have had,” she whispered. “I want the life we still can have.”
There was not a dry eye in the room.
Afterward, my daughter hugged Anna and whispered something that made them both laugh. Daniel shook my hand, then pulled me into an embrace.
“You look happy, Dad,” he said.
“I am.”
For the first time in years, I meant it without qualification.
That evening, after our guests had gone home, Anna and I returned to the house we had decided to share.
I had prepared a few small things to make the night special. Fresh flowers stood on the bedside table. There was soft music playing in the living room, and I had warmed some milk because Anna had once told me she liked drinking it before bed.
