Her old house belonged to Calvin and Ava.
Her childhood room had become my storage room years ago.
Havenwood was temporary.
Seven missing years had made the simplest word complicated.
“Calvin still calls me his wife,” she said.
“He technically isn’t wrong.”
“I know.”
She looked toward a father pushing a stroller along the path.
“But he built a whole life while believing I was dead.”
“So did you.”
“Yes.”
She pressed the letter flat against her knee.
“He has been kind to me. Patient. He never demands that I remember things.”
“Do you love him?”
Melissa took a long time.
“I care about him.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“I don’t know yet.”
And somehow, saying it seemed to free her.
Calvin had spent eighteen months trying to help the woman he had married return to him.
Melissa had spent eighteen months trying to understand whether the man standing beside her belonged to her memories or only to her history.
