And beneath them is a small receipt from a café.
Twelve dollars.
Sometimes I stand there and look at it.
I think about Robert.
I think about the life we planned.
I think about the life we never got.
And I no longer feel that ache quite the same way.
Because I finally understand something.
Moving forward doesn’t mean leaving someone behind.
Sometimes moving forward is the final gift you give the person you lost.
Robert spent years telling me someday.
Someday we’ll travel.
Someday we’ll see the world.
Someday we’ll have time.
For decades, I believed someday was something waiting in front of me.
Now I know better.
Someday doesn’t arrive on its own.
Sometimes you have to get on a plane.
Sometimes you have to disappoint people.
Sometimes you have to sell the house.
Sometimes you have to say no.
Sometimes you have to walk into a stranger’s living room and discover that the past has been waiting there for you.
