I thought back through our life together, all the moments that felt complete. And then I noticed the gaps—times she said she was visiting a friend, or stepped out for hours. I never questioned it. We trusted each other. That had always been enough.
Now I realized there was a part of her life she carried alone. Not because she didn’t trust me, but because she didn’t know how to bring it into ours.
I sat for a long time, then picked up the phone and dialed Claire’s number.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“It’s James,” I said.
A pause. Then: “I was hoping you’d call.”
“I need to see you again,” I told her.
“Okay. When?”
“Sunday. Three o’clock.”
“The bench?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there.”
The days leading up to Sunday felt longer than they should have. I went through old photo albums, boxes in the closet, small items Eleanor had kept. I wasn’t searching for proof—I was trying to understand her.
By Saturday night, something inside me had settled. I was ready.
On Sunday, I arrived early. Claire was already there. She stood when she saw me.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I replied.
We sat side by side, leaving just enough space between us.
“I read the letter again,” I said. “I went through old things. Tried to make sense of it.”
“She didn’t want to hurt you,” Claire said softly.
“I know.” And I meant it.
