“Are you asking because you’re scared?” she asked.

“I’m asking because I love you.”

She smiled.

“Good answer.”

A week later, she wore a white summer dress covered with tiny blue flowers.

After the ceremony, we ate hamburgers at a roadside diner because it was all we could afford.

A few days later, I left.

Her letters followed me overseas.

About a year later, I came home.

And from there, we built everything.

Three children.

Five grandchildren.

A home.

A lifetime.

On our sixtieth anniversary, Irene had squeezed my hand beneath the table and whispered:

“Not bad for a cheap diner wedding.”

Two months later, I held that same hand while she di3d.

I looked back at her letter.

When I married you, I truly believed I was free to do it.

For one moment, I could breathe again.

Then I read the next sentence.

Fourteen years later, I discovered I wasn’t.