Her words reminded me so strongly of Arthur that I accepted twenty dollars instead of forty. I watched Eli and Mila load the couch into their vehicle, then returned to my quiet house. That night, for the first time since Arthur died, I slept in my own bed. The following morning, however, Eli appeared at my doorstep looking troubled. He explained that Mila had dropped a pencil between the cushions. While searching underneath the seat, he discovered a small hand-sewn compartment hidden beneath the fabric. Inside was a package wrapped in brown paper. He had brought it back because the writing on the front seemed important.
I placed the package on my kitchen table. Across the paper, in Arthur’s unmistakable handwriting, was one word: “Fran.” My hands began trembling. I carefully untied the wrapping and discovered dozens of envelopes alongside a letter dated April 2005. Arthur’s first sentence made my heart stop. He was apologizing for a secret he had kept since 1986, the year our newborn daughter Rose died.
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