Irene explained that when she was eighteen, she had married her high-school boyfriend.
The marriage lasted only a few months.
They fought.
Separated.
Signed papers.
And both believed they had divorced.
Except the final decree had never been properly entered.
Irene thought the marriage was finished.
Then she met me.
That part of our story I remembered perfectly.
I first saw her in college.
She was sitting three rows ahead of me, laughing with a friend.
I stared long enough that she eventually caught me.
Months later, when I finally asked her on a date, she smiled and said:
“Took you long enough.”
Not long after that, I joined the Army.
When I learned I would be leaving for Vietnam, I told Irene I wanted to marry her before I went.
“Are you asking because you’re scared?” she asked.
“I’m asking because I love you.”
She smiled.
“Good answer.”
A week later, she wore a white summer dress covered with tiny blue flowers.
After the ceremony, we ate hamburgers at a roadside diner because it was all we could afford.
A few days later, I left.
Her letters followed me overseas.
About a year later, I came home.
And from there, we built everything.
Three children.
Five grandchildren.
A home.
A lifetime.
On our sixtieth anniversary, Irene had squeezed my hand beneath the table and whispered:
“Not bad for a cheap diner wedding.”
Two months later, I held that same hand while she di3d.
I looked back at her letter.
When I married you, I truly believed I was free to do it.
For one moment, I could breathe again.
Then I read the next sentence.
Fourteen years later, I discovered I wasn’t.
I folded the letter.
Mr. Geller stepped toward me.
“Robert?”
“Not now.”
“There are other documents Irene wanted you to see.”
“I can’t read another thing while you’re standing here.”
He nodded, placed his card on the table, and left.
Once the door closed, I stared at Irene’s handwriting.
Then I shouted into the empty house.
“Who were you, Irene?”
My voice echoed through rooms that had spent sixty years holding our conversations.
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