So I left.
And that was the last page of our history.
Or at least that was what I had believed all my life.
After Susan, I met Linda.
We fall in love, get married, build a home, raise our children and spend thirty-six years together.
I never imagined that, by this point in my life, I would hear Susan’s name again.
And much less Linda’s mouth.
Over the next three days, my wife’s condition quickly worsened.
On the third day, Linda died.
My whole world seemed to stop.
When I returned home, everything reminded me of her.
His cup of coffee was still in the kitchen.
His coat was still hanging in the closet.
The book I was reading was still next to our bed, with a marker between pages that would never end.
I couldn’t understand how I was supposed to continue living without the woman I had shared with me for most of my adult life.
But as the weeks went on, Linda’s last words resounded more and more strongly in my mind.
Find Susan.
You’ll understand everything.
And please forgive me.
Finally, I realized that if I didn’t fulfill Linda’s last wish, I would spend the rest of my life wondering what I had tried to tell myself.
So I started looking for Susan.
I contacted old friends from college.
I searched Facebook groups.
I called people I hadn’t spoken to in almost forty years.
Several weeks later, I finally found it.
Susan lived in another city, about four hours from where I was.
One Saturday morning, I got in the car and drove there.
When I got home, I sat in the car for a long time.
It had been almost forty years.
What was I supposed to say?
How could I explain to you that my late wife had sent me there?
Finally, I forced myself out of the car and walked to the front door.
I called.
A few seconds later, the door opened.
I recognized her immediately.
Susan’s hair had turned completely gray.
