That we wanted different lives. That I shouldn’t come looking for her.
I had read it so many times that the paper softened at the folds.
My mother, Ruth, told me to respect Anna’s decision.
“You can’t make someone choose you, Walter.”
I believed her. Eventually, I believed I had recovered.
But sitting alone after Carol’s funeral, I could remember exactly how it had felt to hold that letter.
For two weeks, I blamed Carol’s request on medication and exhaustion. Then I would hear how carefully she had said Anna’s name, and that explanation would fall apart.
I began contacting people from college.
Most remembered Anna but had lost touch. Finally, someone gave me a number for her old friend Diane.
The moment I introduced myself, her tone hardened.
“I don’t have anything to tell you.”
She ended the call before I could explain.
A week later, she called back.
“
