I whispered,
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
She cried.
“Maybe because he loved you.”
I looked back at the letter.
There was one final paragraph.
“I never wanted you to remember the bottle.
I wanted you to remember the evenings.
The laughter.
The arguments.
The birthdays.
The nights Emily came downstairs.
The nights you fell asleep on my shoulder.
The nights we had nothing to say and still stayed at the table.
If the day ever comes when I am no longer sitting across from you at nine o’clock, please don’t stop.
Put two glasses on the table.
One for you.
One for me.
And raise yours.
Not because you’re drinking alone.
But because thirty-five years is too beautiful to end simply because one chair is empty.
A glass to another day.
And to all the days we were lucky enough to have.”
I couldn’t read anymore.
I folded the letter against my chest.
