PART 3: THE ROSE AND THE PHOTOGRAPH
I stared at him.
“You told them that?”
He nodded.
“They believed me. They thought they were respecting your wishes.”
“You lied to them, too.”
He didn’t deny it.
Daniel stood near the door, pale.
“You told us she was an old sweetheart who lost touch,” he said.
Thomas whispered, “I didn’t know she was still waiting.”
“Daniel told me you asked whether I still visited the memorial,” I said. “You knew I hadn’t forgotten you.”
Thomas lowered his eyes.
A car pulled into the driveway. Daniel’s mother, Rebecca, and his uncle, Peter, came inside carrying groceries. Thomas had apparently invited them for dinner.
Rebecca saw me and smiled.
“You must be Eleanor. Dad told us his first love was coming. Isn’t this wonderful?”
Thomas reached for my hand.
“I hoped we could have some time together,” he said. “Whatever time I have left. Maybe we can finally have our second chance.”
For one dangerous second, I remembered the boy sharing his coffee.
Then I remembered every birthday I had spent talking to an empty memorial.
“No.”
Thomas blinked.
“Eleanor, please.”
Rebecca looked confused.
“Dad said you two were separated by the war.”
“We were,” I said. “Until he came home.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Your father came home in 1973. He knew I believed he was still missing, and he never told me otherwise.”
Peter set down the grocery bags.
“Dad, is that true?”
Thomas whispered, “I was ashamed.”
Rebecca stared at him.
“You let her believe you were dead?”
“I assumed she’d moved on.”
“She didn’t,” Daniel said.
Thomas looked around at their faces.
“I loved Margaret. I love all of you. I was trying to do right by my family.”
“And I wasn’t family,” I said.
He flinched.
“You were everything to me once.”
“Once,” I repeated.
Daniel walked me outside. At the car, he stopped and turned to me.
“I’m sorry. I thought he’d told me the whole story.”
“You believed him.”
“I should have asked more questions.”
“Now you know to.”
I asked him to take me to the memorial.
He drove without turning on the radio.
At the memorial, I stopped before the stone honoring those who never came home.
I laid my white rose at its base.
For the first time, I didn’t leave our photograph.
I took it from my purse and studied our young faces.
“I did love you,” I whispered. “I won’t apologize for that.”
Daniel waited several steps away.
I slipped the photograph back into my purse.
On the flight home, I spotted another plane through the window. My hand drifted toward my heart out of habit.
Then I lowered it.
When Ruth picked me up, she asked what I wanted to do next.
“Have dinner with you,” I said.
“Anything else?”
“Yes. I think I’d like to see the ocean.”
She smiled.
“Then we’ll go to the beach.”
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
