She admitted she had deliberately hidden how weak she had become.
Not because she didn’t trust me.
Because she wanted me to continue living.
She knew that if I understood how sick she really was, I would abandon everything and come home.
Then came the part I could barely read.
She had written that if I ever blamed myself for not being beside her when she died, I needed to stop.
She knew I loved her.
She had always known.
I bent forward and cried.
Years of regret broke open all at once.
Susan rested her hand against my shoulder.
“I told her you would blame yourself,” she whispered.
I looked up.
“What?”
A tiny smile appeared on Susan’s face.
“She knew you very well. She once told me, ‘Sam always thinks loving somebody means he has to fix everything.’”
A broken laugh escaped me.
That sounded exactly like my mother.
