“She was warm,” I said.
“Funny, in a dry way.
She remembered everything — birthdays, names, the small things people mentioned once and forgot they’d said.
She was a good cook.
She was stubborn.” I paused.
“She was a good wife.
For thirty-six years, she was a good wife to me.
And I think she spent thirty-six years knowing what she’d done, and not knowing how to undo it, and choosing wrong every time she had the chance to choose right.” I stopped.
“Until the end.”
Claire nodded slowly.
“That’s enough for now,” she said.
“That’s enough to know.”
She picked up Carol’s letter and folded it carefully along its crease.
She put it in her bag.
She would keep it, I understood.
She would read it again later, alone, and feel whatever she needed to feel about it without anyone watching.
