At 67, I Took My First Vacation to Malta and Decided to Say ‘Yes’ to Everything – I Never Expected to Find Love Again

At least, I thought he did.

David continued.

“Ruth was here visiting her sister. She and Michael met in this restaurant.”

I looked around the courtyard.

The old stone walls.

The flowering vines.

The harbor visible through an archway.

This was where my husband had met another man’s wife.

“They saw each other again?” I asked.

“Several times.”

“Here?”

“Here. London. Paris. Once in Boston.”

Boston.

I remembered Boston.

Michael came home with a red scarf and said he bought it during a layover because he missed me.

I wore it for 20 years.

I pressed both hands against my mouth.

David looked away.

“Did they love each other?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me again.”

His eyes returned to mine.

“Yes.”

The answer broke something.

Not loudly.

There was no dramatic crack.

Just a quiet collapse inside a life I thought had already ended.

Michael had died beside me.

Cancer took him slowly.

I fed him soup when he could no longer hold a spoon.

I washed his hair.

Changed his sheets.

Slept in a chair beside his hospice bed.

On his final morning, he squeezed my hand and said, “You were the best part of my life.”

I believed him.

Maybe I still did.

That was the cruelest part.

“Why did it end?” I asked.

“Ruth said they chose their families.”

“How noble.”

David flinched.

“They ended the affair 21 years ago.”

“But kept writing?”

“For a while. The last letters were apologies.”

“To each other?”

“Mostly.”

I looked at the envelope again.

“And that?”

“Michael wrote it to you.”

“Why didn’t he give it to me?”

“I think he gave it to Ruth because he was afraid.”

“Afraid of me?”

“Afraid of losing you.”

I laughed bitterly.