Then he answered.
“Maybe it’s late.
But maybe it isn’t too late.”
Three months later, Thomas proposed.
There was no restaurant.
No orchestra.
No expensive decorations.
He took me to the little park near our old high school.
We sat beneath a tree.
He reached into his coat pocket.
This time, there really was a ring.
A diamond.
Not enormous.
Not flashy.
But beautiful.
My hands started shaking.
He smiled.
“I told you.”
I laughed through my tears.
“You actually remembered?”
“I remembered everything.”
I said yes.
We married quietly.
A small ceremony.
A few friends.
A handful of family members.
Thomas held my hand the entire time.
His children were polite.
But they weren’t happy.
I could feel it.
His daughter, Rebecca, barely spoke to me.
His son, Michael, watched me constantly.
One evening, I overheard Rebecca talking to her brother.
“She came back at exactly the right time.”
Michael answered, “Dad isn’t stupid.”
“No,” Rebecca said. “But he’s lonely.”
I pretended I hadn’t heard them.
I never wanted Thomas’s money.
I had lived a simple life for decades.
I told him that repeatedly.
“I don’t want your house.”
“You can have it.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I know.”
