“Exactly. Imagine being that demanding and not even paying rent.”

I laughed more around Arthur than I had in years.

He had been married to his wife, Anne, for thirty-eight years before she died.

So neither of us pretended grief had disappeared simply because time had passed.

We talked about our spouses.

Our children.

Regrets.

Loneliness.

One afternoon Arthur said,

“Nobody warns you that grief becomes quieter without actually leaving.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

After several weeks, he invited me to his home.

“I have an entire shelf of old records you’ll like. Come for coffee.”

I trusted him.

So I went.

That was when I saw the painting.

Arthur set the mugs down.

“Abigail, sit down.”

“No.”

I pointed toward the fireplace.

“Tell me where you got that.”

He looked at the painting.

“From Robert.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“Robert sent it to me.”

“You knew my husband?”

Arthur nodded.

“I met him when we were young.”

He explained that Robert had spent almost a year in Australia before we met.

Arthur and Robert had worked together at a hotel outside Melbourne.

They had traveled on weekends, played cards, listened to records, worked terrible jobs, and become close friends.

Robert painted whenever he could afford supplies.

Arthur pointed toward the cottage.

“That was based on a place we stayed near a lake.”

“But Robert painted that after we were married.”

“He painted it more than once.”

Then Arthur explained.

The original version had been created during Robert’s time in Australia.

Years later, he painted another version at home.

That was the one I remembered.

The one I believed had been destroyed.

Then much later, Robert painted it again from memory.

That third version was hanging above Arthur’s fireplace.

“Why would he send it to you?” I asked.

Arthur stood.

“There’s something else you need to see.”

He disappeared into another room.

When he returned, he was carrying a wooden box.

He placed it on the coffee table.

Inside were dozens of letters.

Every envelope carried the same sender.

Robert.

My hands began trembling.

“How long were you writing to each other?”

“On and off for decades.”

“Robert never told me.”

Arthur watched my face.

“He wasn’t hiding an affair, Abigail.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it.”

I almost laughed.

He was right.

Arthur explained that after Robert returned to America, they stayed in touch occasionally.

Then life became busy.

Marriage.

Children.

Work.

Sometimes years passed between letters.

But when Robert became ill, he found Arthur again through an old friend.

Their correspondence became regular.

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

Arthur looked down at his hands.

“Because most of what he wrote was about you.”

I stopped.

“Me?”

Arthur reached inside the box and removed one envelope.

“He sent this with the painting.”

My name was written across the front.

I recognized Robert’s handwriting immediately.

The envelope was still sealed.

“Why do you have this?”

“Because Robert asked me to keep it.”

“For twelve years?”

Arthur nodded.

“Why?”

He gave me a sad smile.

“Because he hoped you would eventually come to Australia.”

I stared at him.

Arthur explained that Robert remembered how much I had always wanted to travel.

He worried that after his death, I would spend the rest of my life taking care of everyone except myself.

“He said you gave everything away,” Arthur told me. “Your time. Your money. Your energy.”

My throat tightened.

“He said you were happiest whenever you planned trips you never actually took.”

Then Arthur said something I wasn’t prepared for.

“Robert wrote that his biggest regret wasn’t dying before retirement. It was helping you believe life could always be postponed.”

Tears filled my eyes.

I finally opened the envelope.

The letter was four pages long.

I couldn’t read all of it without stopping.

But one part broke something open inside me.

“Abigail,

If you’re reading this in Australia, then you finally did something we spent years talking about. And if I’m not there with you, don’t turn the trip into a memorial for me. See things because you want to see them.”

I covered my mouth.

The letter continued.

“Eat food I would have hated. Stay too long somewhere beautiful. Leave somewhere boring early. Spend money on yourself without explaining it to anyone.

The children love you, but don’t let loving them become the reason you never live without permission.”

I had to stop again.