I have been treated as a burden for so long that I no longer know what it would mean to be welcomed. I do not ask for romance. Only honesty and a place where I need not apologize for existing.
She sealed the letter.
Then nearly burned it.
Instead, she sent it.
Three weeks later, a reply arrived.
The handwriting was rough but careful.
Mrs. Whitmore,
I appreciate your honesty and will answer with my own. I am a large man with an old injury that sometimes affects my breathing and makes people uncomfortable when they see it. I have lived alone for many years and am not skilled at conversation.
My cabin has wide doors, and I can build whatever furniture you require. I cannot promise luxury, but I can promise a warm roof, enough food, and respect for your wishes.
If you come, you will never be required to earn your place here through obedience. You may leave if you discover this life does not suit you.
I would like someone to talk to when the snow comes.
C. Mercer.
Eleanor read the letter until the folds began to soften.
She answered.
They exchanged six more letters.
He never asked how much she weighed beyond the practical question of preparing transportation and furniture safely. He never asked whether she could make herself smaller or promised she would become more attractive if she changed.
Instead, he asked whether she liked reading.
Whether she preferred tea or coffee.
Whether she could tolerate long winters.
And whether she would object to sharing a home with a large, stubborn dog who considered himself the rightful owner of the hearth.
Eleanor discovered that she liked writing to him.
She liked his awkward humor.
His seriousness.
And his habit of apologizing whenever he thought he'd asked too personal a question.
In one letter, she confessed that she sometimes sang while cooking.
He answered that he couldn't sing at all, but would gladly listen.
In another, she mentioned how much she missed fresh flowers during winter.
His next letter contained a pressed wildflower wrapped in thin paper.
This grew beside the eastern ridge. I thought you might like to see what summer looks like here.
She held the flower to her chest.
Then cried.
Not because she believed herself in love.
Because nobody had sent her something beautiful without expecting payment in fourteen years.