For most of my life, I convinced myself that some people were meant to remain in the past, no matter how badly you once wished they could have stayed in your future.

Then, after forty-one years, I heard a voice say my name.

“Ruthie.”

And suddenly, every year between us disappeared.

I was standing outside a hospital room with one hand resting on the door.

Forty-one years.

That was how long it had been since I had seen Jeffrey.

Forty-one years since his final letter.

Forty-one years since he had asked me never to contact him again.

Now his son, Peter, was standing beside me.

“He keeps asking if you’re here yet,” Peter said.

I looked at him.

He had Jeffrey’s eyes.

“Is he awake?”

“He’s trying to stay awake for you.”

For a moment, I almost turned around.

I was sixty years old.

I had spent most of my adult life learning how to exist without Jeffrey.