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The letter had been tucked between the pages of the Teach Yourself Italian book she’d kept in the drawer of her bedside table and which she’d bought in preparation for the holiday she didn’t survive to take. It was addressed to ‘My beautiful and wonderful husband’.
It was some time before he was able to open the envelope. When he did, his weeping made it impossible for him to see what was written. Finally, sat on the kitchen floor, his face drawn and tear-stained he’d managed to read it.
She told him how much she loved him; how she’d adored him from their first meeting, how he’d been the answer to her prayer. She’d cherished their life together and whilst he might think the last year had been the worst, it had somehow also been the best. He was too young to be on his own for the rest of his life. She wanted him to find someone who could give him the love she knew he needed and to whom he could give all his love, as he’d given her. Finally, she told him he would always be able to feel her love and if there was ‘something’ after this life, then she would be there for him.
Tears flowing down his cheeks, he remembered how he’d taken her to the bathroom and helped her wash; how she’d sat naked, looking up at him as he held her hand and stroked her hair.
“I’m scared,” she’d suddenly said. He knew instinctively what she meant. She wasn’t afraid of death; it was the manner, and what came next.
He’d told her she’d just go to sleep one evening and not wake up again, that there was either nothing or something and if there was nothing she’d nothing to worry about but if there was something, it would be nice.
It had taken all his strength to keep the tears at bay that moment: it was not what she needed to see. Taking his hand, she’d kissed it gently, smiling up at him. All was well. She was happy.