always meant to me.
I had insisted that we get married before Vietnam because I needed to leave knowing that we were made for each other.
She knew exactly what the word “wife” meant to me.
And that’s why she was afraid.
Each year of waiting made the moment I had to tell you more difficult.
I then found an unfinished page.
Robert,
I can marry you now. This should be the happiest sentence I’ve ever written, but first I have to explain why I couldn’t before.
Nothing followed.
No explanation was given.
No confession.
Just a blank sheet of paper.
That afternoon, Penelope found me on the bed, holding the unfinished letter.
“She tried to tell me,” I said.
Penelope sat down next to me.
“And then she didn’t. For forty-six years.”
I lowered my eyes.
“She was afraid.”
“You too, on numerous occasions.”
I looked at it.
Penelope’s
