I told
myself I could accept that.
Then I reached the last paragraph.
Jeffrey asked me not to contact him anymore.
He wrote that Margaret understood how close we had been and that he wanted to give his marriage the best possible beginning.
He said our friendship mattered too much to him to let it become something capable of hurting another person.
At the bottom, he wrote:
“I hope you have a wonderful life, Ruthie.
I’m sorry.
Jeffrey.”
I cried for weeks.
But I respected his choice.
I didn’t write back.
I didn’t call.
I never tried to see him.
For a while, mutual acquaintances occasionally told me things.
Jeffrey and Margaret had a son.
His career was going well.
Eventually, even those small updates disappeared.
I never married.
I dated.
I had relationships.
Some were good.
One came close to becoming permanent.
Whenever people asked why I never settled down, I
gave them the answer that required the least explanation.
“I just never met the right man.”
That wasn’t entirely true.
I had met him when I was seventeen.
Last Tuesday, I turned sixty.
By then, I was living in my childhood home again.
After my parents died, I kept the house.
I had spent enough years moving between apartments that returning there somehow felt right.
That evening, I ate dinner alone and cut myself a slice of birthday cake.
At 9:17 p.m., the old landline rang.
Almost nobody used that number anymore.
I nearly let it ring.
Instead, I answered.
“Hello?”
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A man’s voice said,
“Is this Ruth?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Peter. I’m Jeffrey’s son.”
I immediately sat down.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
“Jeffrey’s son?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
Peter hesitated.
“My father wants to talk to you. He… doesn’t have
