Chapter 7
Arthur got sick.
It was quick. Cancer. Six months. He was seventy-five. He held my hand until the end.
"I love you, Margaret Bennett," he said. "You made my last years the best of my life."
"I love you too," I said. "Thank you for finding me."
He died in his sleep. In our bed. In the house we'd shared.
I grieved. Deeply. But I didn't break. I'd already survived the worst — losing Harold. Losing my son, temporarily. Losing myself, for a while. I knew how to grieve. I knew how to keep going.
William and Sarah and the twins moved in for a month. They took care of me. They cooked. They cleaned. They loved me.
Then I told them to go home. "I'm fine," I said. "I have the reserve. I have the foundation. I have friends. I have memories. I'll be okay."
And I was.
May you like
I walked the reserve every morning. I worked at the foundation. I wrote letters. I gardened. I traveled — to Italy, sometimes. To the hill town where I'd met Arthur. I sat at our table. I ordered his favorite wine. I talked to him. I knew he could hear me.
I was alone. But I wasn't lonely. There's a difference.
