He said our friendship mattered too much to him to let it become something capable of hurting another person.

At the bottom, he wrote:

“I hope you have a wonderful life, Ruthie.

I’m sorry.

Jeffrey.”

I cried for weeks.

But I respected his choice.

I didn’t write back.

I didn’t call.

I never tried to see him.

For a while, mutual acquaintances occasionally told me things.

Jeffrey and Margaret had a son.

His career was going well.

Eventually, even those small updates disappeared.

I never married.

I dated.

I had relationships.

Some were good.

One came close to becoming permanent.

Whenever people asked why I never settled down, I gave them the answer that required the least explanation.

“I just never met the right man.”

That wasn’t entirely true.

I had met him when I was seventeen.

Last Tuesday, I turned sixty.

By then, I was living in my childhood home again.