Raymond came pounding on my door three days later, red-faced, waving threats about lawyers and undue influence.
Walter, who visited often, happened to be sitting at my kitchen table with tea.
“Every document is airtight,” my lawyer told Raymond calmly. “Contest it if you’d like. You’ll lose, and you’ll pay the fees.”
My cousin stared at me as if he were seeing a stranger.
“You foolish old woman!”
“Every document is airtight.”
“No, Raymond. I’m a woman who was loved. There’s a difference.”
He left without another word.
I moved into Thomas’s old house that spring. Every Sunday morning, I opened one letter and read it slowly with my coffee.
Love hadn’t passed me by. It had waited 56 years, and even in leaving, it had wrapped its arms around me one last time.
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