The lawyer, Mr. Whitmore, looked toward Eleanor’s grave.
“Because Eleanor spent the last six months preparing for the possibility that she wouldn’t be able to tell you the truth herself.”
I looked down at the envelope.
My name was written across it in Eleanor’s handwriting.
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Not my full name.
Just:
To the man who gave me one perfect day.
My throat tightened.
I opened it.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
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I recognized her handwriting immediately.
“If you’re reading this, then I’m gone.”
I had to stop for a moment.
The lawyer remained silent.
I continued.
“First, I need you to understand something. I never married you because I wanted to manipulate you. I never expected you to love me. I only wanted one beautiful memory before I died.”
