She described how she’d found it by accident, the envelope softened at the edges, like it had been handled and then hesitated over a hundred times. Inside, his handwriting wandered but his meaning didn’t: he named every small moment I’d once dismissed as nothing—rides home, shared meals, quiet check-ins—and called them the shape of his gratitude. Listening to her read, I realized he’d been watching the same life I was living, only he’d seen the invisible threads I’d never claimed.
By the time she finished, the air between us felt different. Her voice steadied as she admitted she’d clung to biology because it was easier than admitting she’d been afraid to share him. Meeting in person, with the letter laid gently on the table, we didn’t argue over roles or rights. We traded memories, filled in each other’s blank years, and let his words guide us toward something less fragile. Grief, once a border, became shared ground—proof that love had already woven us together long before we dared to name it.
