So I let her set the pace.
When she wanted to talk, I listened.
When she needed silence, I sat beside her.
When she asked whether I was tired, I told her that I could sleep another night.
Just before dawn, she finally rested her head on my shoulder.
“Richard?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for not asking why I didn’t leave.”
I looked down at her.
“I wanted to understand your life,” I admitted. “But I don’t need to turn your suffering into an interrogation.”
She closed her eyes.
“I wish someone had told me that years ago.”
I kissed the top of her head.
“So do I.”
A few minutes later, she fell asleep.
I stayed awake, watching the pale morning light slowly spread across the curtains.
And for the first time in my life, I understood how little I had known about the woman I had spent forty years remembering.
