George continued.
“Your father didn’t make me marry you. He simply helped me realize in time something I was too afraid to admit to myself.”
Finally, I opened the letter.
At the bottom, my father had written:
“If you ever tell Mary about this conversation, tell her that I didn’t choose you for her. I simply saw what the two of you were still too afraid to see.”
I began to cry.
George took my hand.
“Are you angry with me?”
I looked at him.
Then I laughed through my tears.
“A little. Fifty-four years is a very long time to keep something like this from your wife.”
He laughed too.
“I know.”
A few minutes later, our children came back into the room.
Our daughter immediately noticed my red eyes and became worried.
“Mom, is everything okay?”
I looked at George.
Then I squeezed his hand.
“Everything is fine.”
That evening, when George finally blew out the candles on his 80th birthday cake, our children took another picture of us sitting side by side.
They still believed that we had always had the perfect marriage.
I didn’t think that anymore.
It had never been perfect.
It had been something much more important.
