She told me her late husband had bought the handbag after forty years of marriage.
When she’d protested about the price, he’d smiled and said,
“Some things are worth far more than what they cost.”
Then came the final sentence.
“And Robert… if you’re reading this beside Elaine… buy your wife flowers.
Yes, they’ll die.
That’s exactly why they’re worth giving.”
By the time I reached the end, the page had become blurry with tears.
Across the table, Robert was crying too.
He admitted he’d taken the hospice job because he’d wanted to earn enough extra money to buy me the designer handbag himself without touching our savings or emergency fund.
Before he managed to save enough, Margaret had passed away and chosen me as the next owner of hers.
He confessed everything.
The childhood poverty.
The fear.
see you next post
