That evening, my daughter drove me to the hospital. I moved like a ghost. A nurse handed me a small bag containing his watch, his wallet, and an envelope with my name on it in his shaky handwriting. Inside was a letter—an apology, a confession, a farewell. He wrote that he had never meant to make me feel small, that he carried everything to protect me, that he saw now he had held too tightly. He said I was still his wife in his heart, even after the papers were signed. He hoped I’d find freedom, and hoped I’d someday forgive him.
By the time I finished the letter, I was sobbing in a hospital hallway. I realized then that I hadn’t stopped loving him—I had simply stopped recognizing that love. I had wanted freedom, but freedom without closure is another kind of prison. I didn’t want the marriage as it was, but I wanted understanding, compassion, time. At seventy-five, I thought time still owed me something. But it never does. And I’m left with the cruelest truth of all: sometimes you don’t lose love in marriage—you lose it the moment you believe you still have time.
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
