I asked Richard whether he would ever tell my mother the truth. He nodded and said he wanted to, but he was waiting for the right moment. I told him that hiding something so important could eventually hurt her more than the truth itself. He agreed. Together, we decided that the following Sunday would be different.
When Sunday arrived, Richard came to Mom’s house earlier than usual. He brought the same white roses he had been leaving at Eleanor’s grave and placed them on the kitchen table. Then he explained everything, including the letter and his weekly visits. Mom listened without interrupting. Tears slowly filled her eyes, and she reached for his hand.
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