Then she whispered, “Hello, Raymond.”
I stood.
“Evelyn.”
She looked toward Rosie.
The little girl smiled.
“Grandma, he read it.”
Evelyn nodded.
“I can see that, honey.”
Her eyes moved toward the patch.
Then she looked at me.
For a moment, her expression collapsed.
“Oh, Raymond.”
I couldn't speak.
She stepped closer.
Then, very carefully, she put her arms around me.
I held her.
We were two old people who had lost more than we knew how to explain.
Her son.
My daughter.
And nine years of ordinary family life that might have looked different if grief hadn't made us so afraid of one another.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then Evelyn whispered, “I'm sorry.”
I shook my head.
“Don't.”
She stepped back.
Her eyes filled.
“I should have called you when Mara got sick.”
I looked down.
“She asked you not to?”
Evelyn nodded slowly.
“At first.”
I waited.
She continued.
“Then, near the end, she changed her mind.”
My chest tightened.
I looked toward her.
“What happened?”
Evelyn lowered herself into the booth beside Rosie.
Her hands trembled around the cane.
“She was ashamed.”
I sat opposite her.
Evelyn continued.
“For years, she told herself she'd contact you after she found the right words.”
I nodded.
“That's what she wrote.”
The older woman looked toward me.
“When she was diagnosed, she said she wanted to make things right.”
I swallowed.
“Why didn't she?”
Evelyn's eyes filled.
“She tried.”
The answer struck me.
I stared.
“What?”
Evelyn took a breath.
“She wrote letters. Made phone calls she ended before they connected. Sometimes she'd sit beside the window with your number on her phone and just stare at it.”
I looked down.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Evelyn continued.
“I told her she didn't need perfect words.”
I swallowed.
“She didn't.”
“I know.”
Her voice trembled.
“But she was frightened you'd stopped loving her.”
The sentence broke me.
I covered my face.
For years, I'd believed Mara couldn't bear to look at me.
And she had been afraid I couldn't bear to look at her.
Two people who loved each other.
Separated by a conversation neither knew how to begin.
Evelyn reached across the table.
She touched my hand.
“Raymond, there's something I have to tell you.”
I looked up.
She swallowed.
“When you sent the patch, Mara cried for hours.”
My chest tightened.
“I thought she returned it.”
Evelyn shook her head.
“No.”
For a moment, I stared.
She continued.
“She kept it.”
I looked toward Rosie's stitching.