“I wrote this when I was twenty-three.”
“Before Calvin?”
“We were dating.”
She smiled faintly.
“Apparently we had just had our first serious argument.”
“What about?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Then I’m taking your side.”
She laughed.
“Thank you.”
She read part of the letter aloud.
Not every word.
Just enough for me to understand.
At twenty-three, Melissa had written to the woman she imagined becoming at forty.
She wrote about marriage, work, children and the fear of living by habit instead of choice.
Dorothy had apparently encouraged her to put those fears on paper.
One line mattered more than all the others.
If you ever read this after something has changed your life, remember that loving people does not mean pretending nothing changed.
Melissa lowered the pages.
“I keep thinking everyone is waiting for me to go home.”
“You can come home.”
“Which home?”
I had no answer.
