The pain was still there.
But it wasn’t the only thing anymore.
Outside, the sky was beginning to darken.
I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone.
At the bottom of Lily’s letter was a number.
My hands shook as I dialed it.
It rang twice.
Then a small voice answered.
“Hello?”
I swallowed hard.
“Lily?”
A pause.
“Yes…”
I closed my eyes for a second.
“This is Margaret,” I said softly. “Harold’s wife.”
Silence.
Then, in a trembling voice:
“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just—”
“You didn’t,” I interrupted gently.
“You did exactly what he wanted.”
There was another pause.
Then she asked, very quietly:
“What happens now?”
I looked back at the garage.
At the box.
At the life I had just discovered.
Then I looked forward.
“Now,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected,
“you come have dinner with me.”
And for the first time since my husband died…
I didn’t feel completely alone.
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