He looked at me helplessly.
“Every year, Thomas. Every single year on your birthday, I took a white rose and sat there talking to you.”
He covered his mouth with one trembling hand.
“I didn’t know.”
“No. You didn’t know because you never bothered to find out.”
He flinched.
I pulled the old photograph from my handbag and placed it on the table beside him.
“Do you remember this?”
He stared at it as though someone had placed his entire youth in front of him.
“Of course.”
“I kept it all these years. I kept it when my friends got married. I kept it when my parents died. I kept it when I bought my first house and when I retired from teaching.”
My voice cracked.
“I kept it because I thought you might come home one day.”
Thomas reached for the photograph, but his fingers shook too badly to lift it.
