And I could leave this world knowing that I had held my son’s hand, even if only for a little while.
Thank you for giving me a wedding.
Thank you for giving me a son.
And thank you for coming back, even though you never knew you were returning.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
Then I cried again.
Not because I had lost a mother I barely knew.
But because I had finally understood how much she had loved me.
A week later, Rebecca and I returned to Eleanor’s grave.
We brought white roses and a photograph from the wedding.
It showed Eleanor laughing, her head tilted back, one hand holding my arm and the other raised triumphantly to display her wedding ring.
I placed the photograph beside the flowers.
“You were right about one thing,” I whispered.
Rebecca looked at me.
“What?”
“She really would have become unbearable if she’d lived another ten years.”
