Then I slipped it back into my handbag.
That photograph belonged to my life, too. It was proof that I had once loved someone deeply, not a contract requiring me to wait forever.
When I returned home, my sister was sitting at the kitchen table.
She looked up from her tea.
“How did it go?”
I took off my coat and sat beside her.
“He’s alive,” I said. “He came home more than fifty years ago. He married, raised a family, and lived the life I thought we might have shared.”
My sister reached for my hand.
“Are you all right?”
I thought about the ring, the tears, and the apology I had waited decades to hear.
“No,” I admitted. “Not entirely. But I think I will be.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“What do you want to do now?”
I looked through the kitchen window at the pale afternoon sky.
