Jeffrey’s goodbye had arrived in writing, along with a request that left little room for argument: no more contact. I respected it. Through the years that followed, I tried to accept that loving someone did not guarantee a place in their life. Eventually, I stopped imagining a future with him. But standing at the far end of that hospital corridor, I realized how clearly I still remembered the future I had once wanted.
There was no simple way to measure the distance between that letter and this doorway. We had lived forty-one years beyond the people we had been, and I could not know what this meeting would mean. Hearing him say my name did not explain his silence or erase the hurt. It did, however, bring me back to the present. He was here, I was listening, and for the first time in decades, there could be another conversation.
