Ti Amo, Day 5

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The day was lush. The park was quiet. The perfect place to take a walk, to think, to wonder. Her fingers touched the paper in her pocket. Drawing it out, she unfolded the worn sheet of paper. Ti Amo, it began. The ink was faded and the handwriting was thin, spidery and elegant, the way no one seems to write anymore. I love you, I miss you, it continued. I wish you were here with me, and not so far away. When will you come home? I’m sorry. I spoke thoughtlessly. I didn’t mean what I said. I want the baby as much as you do. I’ll take a second job if I have to. We’ll make it work. Just come back. Please. It was signed, Your Husband. No names, no date, though it was clearly old, and no envelope. Just the letter and a million questions. She wished she could hand it back to its owner, but that would never happen. She had found it at the bottom of one of her mother’s purses, in a plain white envelope, wrapped around a gold wedding band and a lock of baby-fine hair. Her mother was gone now, buried yesterday. The single mother who worked two jobs while raising a daughter without a father, and left just the letter and a million questions.

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