We were laughing.
I remembered that day.
I remembered exactly where we were.
I took the photograph from her.
On the back, there was writing.
Carol’s handwriting.
I turned it over.
It said:
“I hope someday they both understand that young people sometimes make terrible mistakes because they are afraid of losing what they love.”
I stared at those words.
And something inside me finally broke.
I began to cry.
Not the quiet tears I had cried at Carol’s funeral.
These were different.
They carried forty years of confusion with them.
Anna moved closer.
She didn’t try to stop me.
She simply sat beside me.
After a while, I said:
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.”
“You don’t have to decide today.”
I nodded.
She was right.
That afternoon, I stayed at Anna’s house for several hours.
We talked about our lives.
She told me about her marriage.
Her children.
The husband she had lost years earlier.
I told her about Carol.
About our children.
About the ridiculous arguments we had over money.
About the vacations that didn’t go according to plan.
About the time Carol accidentally locked us out of our own house at midnight.
We laughed.
