Daniel visited her occasionally.
He had not forgiven her completely.
Maybe he never would.
But he had stopped allowing anger to define him.
And Michael?
Michael arrived last.
He wore a dark blazer.
In one hand he carried flowers.
In the other, a small chocolate cake.
One candle.
My breath caught.
He placed it on the table.
“Happy sixty-third birthday, Maggie.”
Everyone began singing.
Terribly.
I laughed so hard I cried.
Later, after everyone left, Michael and I stood together on the porch.
He had been back in my life for a year.
We were not exactly husband and wife.
Not yet.
But we were more than strangers.
More than survivors of the same history.
He looked at me.
“I have something for you.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“If it is another envelope, I’m throwing it in the street.”
He laughed.
“No envelope.”
He took something from his pocket.
