“I suppose at our age, fighting over it would be undignified.”

“At our age?”

He smiled.

We met in Melbourne.

“Fair point. You look 35,” he replied.

“Now I know you’re definitely dishonest.”

Arthur laughed.

We had coffee that afternoon, then another two days later.

Then an afternoon walk through a garden where he spent 25 minutes arguing that roses were overrated.

“I know you’re definitely dishonest.”

“They’re needy,” he said.

“They’re flowers.”

“Exactly. Imagine being that demanding and not even paying rent.”

I laughed more around Arthur than I had in years.

He loved jazz. So did I.

We both also liked old movies and gardening.

“They’re needy.”

Arthur also read detective novels, grew tomatoes badly, and had been married to his wife, Anne, for 38 years before she died.

We didn’t pretend we were young and didn’t play ridiculous games.

We talked about spouses we’d lost.

Children.

Regrets.

Loneliness.

We talked about spouses we’d lost.

***

Once, over a late lunch, Arthur said, “Nobody warns you that grief gets quieter, but it doesn’t entirely leave.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

***

After several afternoons together, he invited me to his home.

“I’ve got a whole shelf of old records you’d love,” he said. “Come for coffee, and I’ll show you.”

I trusted him.

I knew exactly what he meant.

***

Arthur’s house was warm and ordinary, filled with books, mismatched furniture, and family photos along the hallway.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”

I stepped into the living room and froze.

A painting hung above the fireplace.

“Make yourself at home.”

The painting was a cottage beside a lake with two pine trees leaning toward the water.

A crooked wooden dock was also featured. And in the bottom right corner, almost hidden in the grass, were the initials “R.M.”

It was Robert’s painting! The one I thought had been destroyed!

I knew every brushstroke. I’d watched him paint it.

My hands started shaking.

It was Robert’s painting!

***

Arthur put the mugs down.

“Abigail, sit down.”

“No.”

My voice sounded sharper than intended.

“I need you to tell me where you got that.”

He looked at the painting.

“From Robert.”

I stared at him.

“Abigail, sit down.”

“What did you say?”

“Robert sent it to me.”

My first thought was that it was impossible. My second was worse.

“You knew my husband?”

Arthur nodded.

I felt the room shift.

“How?”

He sat slowly.

“You knew my husband?”

“I was 24. Robert would’ve been 22 or 23. He came to Australia for almost a year.”

I knew my husband had traveled before we met. I knew he’d gone to Australia. But he’d rarely talked about it.

Arthur continued.

“We initially worked together for a few months at a hotel outside Melbourne. Terrible place. Terrible pay.”

A small smile crossed his face.

He’d rarely talked about it.

“Robert was worse at carrying luggage than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

That sounded exactly like him.

I finally sat.

Arthur told me they became friends quickly.

They traveled together on weekends, listened to records, played cards, and worked bad jobs.

That sounded exactly like him.

Robert painted whenever he could afford the supplies.

“That cottage,” Arthur said, pointing toward the fireplace, “was based on a place we stayed near a lake. He painted the first version there.”

“But he painted it after we were married.”

Arthur paused.

“He painted it again.”

That confused me.

Then he explained.

“He painted it again.”

Years after he painted the second version at home and it was destroyed, Robert created a third one from memory: the one hanging over Arthur’s fireplace.

It wasn’t the exact painting I’d lost. It was a copy.

That was why the details looked so familiar.

“Why would he send it to you?”

Arthur stood.

“There’s something I need to show you.”

He left the room.

It was a copy.

My heart was pounding.

When Arthur returned, he was carrying a wooden box.

He placed it on the coffee table.

Inside were letters, dozens of them.

Every envelope had one sender written across the front.

Robert.

My heart was pounding.

***

I picked up the first letter.

The return address was from our old house.

My hands started shaking again.

“How long were you two writing?”

“On and off for decades.”

I looked at Arthur.

“Robert never told me.”

That hurt.

My hands started shaking.

Arthur saw it.

“He wasn’t hiding an affair, Abigail.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it.”

I almost laughed. He was right.

Arthur explained that after Robert returned to the United States, they wrote occasionally.

Then life became busy.

“You thought it.”

Marriage, children, and work.

Years passed between letters.

But when Robert became ill, he found Arthur online through an old friend.

They started writing again.

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

Arthur looked at his hands.

“Because most of what he wrote was about you.”

That stopped me.

Robert became ill.

“Me?”

He nodded.

Arthur took out one envelope.

“He sent this with the painting.”

He handed it to me. The envelope was sealed.

My name was written on it.

I recognized Robert’s handwriting immediately, but I couldn’t open it yet.

He handed it to me.

Instead, I asked, “Why do you have this?”

Arthur leaned back.

“Because Robert asked me to keep it.”

“Indefinitely?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Arthur gave me a sad smile.

“Why do you have this?”

“Because he hoped you’d visit Australia and go to that secondhand bookstore he told you about. I went there every day after I got Robert’s last letter, hoping to bump into you.”

I stared at him, mouth agape.

Then he told me what Robert had written in his final letters.

“I went there every day.”

He’d worried about me. Not because I couldn’t manage money or I couldn’t live alone.

But because I never seemed to believe I was allowed to choose myself.

“He said you gave everything away,” Arthur told me. “Time. Money. Energy.”

I looked down.

He’d worried about me.

“Robert said you were happiest when you were planning trips you never took.”

My throat tightened.

Arthur continued.

“Your husband wrote that his biggest regret wasn’t dying before retirement. It was that he helped you believe life could always be postponed.”

Tears ran down my face; I finally opened the envelope.

“His biggest regret.”

***

Robert’s letter was four pages long.

I couldn’t read it all aloud without stopping, but one part broke me.

“Abigail,

If you’re reading this in Australia, then you’ve finally done something we’ve both been talking about since we were young. And if I’m not there with you, don’t turn the trip into a memorial for me. See things because you want to see them.”

One part broke me.

The letter continued.

“Eat food I would’ve hated. Stay too long somewhere beautiful. Leave somewhere boring early. Spend money on yourself without explaining it to anyone. The children love you, but don’t let loving them become the reason you never live without permission.”

I covered my mouth.

Arthur looked away to give me some privacy.

I covered my mouth.

Then I read the last paragraph.

“I asked Arthur to keep this because Australia always felt like the place where my life became mine for the first time. Maybe it’ll do the same for you. And if Arthur is still around, make him buy the coffee. He still owes me $12.”

I laughed through my tears.

“Maybe it’ll do the same for you.”

Arthur looked at me.

“I wondered whether he mentioned that. Interest seems unreasonable after all these years.”

That made me laugh harder.

I cried after that.

Not the way I’d cried at Robert’s funeral.

This was different.

It felt like grief and relief sharing the same room.

I cried after that.

For over a decade, I’d carried a quiet guilt whenever I did something that would’ve been impossible if Robert were alive.

Selling the house.
Traveling alone.
Enjoying myself.

Part of me had wondered whether moving forward meant leaving him behind.

And there he was, in his own handwriting, telling me to go.

I’d carried a quiet guilt.

***

Arthur and I sat talking until the coffee grew cold.

He told me stories about Robert that I’d never heard.

Robert falling asleep during a jazz concert, getting lost while insisting he knew exactly where he was, and trying to cook fish over a campfire before dropping it in the dirt.

“That sounds like him,” I said, giggling.

He told me stories about Robert.

Arthur smiled.

“Your husband talked about you constantly near the end.”

That surprised me. Then something dawned on me.

“You knew I existed before we met.”

“Of course.”

“Then, when we met at the bookstore…”

“I didn’t know it was you.”

That surprised me.

My married name wasn’t unusual, and Arthur hadn’t seen recent photos of me.

Only after our second afternoon together, when I mentioned Robert and where we’d lived, did Arthur begin to wonder.

“Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”

“Because imagine you’re traveling alone in Australia and some strange man says, ‘By the way, I knew your dead husband and have been storing his letters for 12 years.'”

Arthur hadn’t seen recent photos of me.

I smiled.

“That would’ve been memorable.”

“I thought coffee was safer.”

“So you invited me here on purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Because of the painting.”

“Partly.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“That would’ve been memorable.”

Arthur looked almost embarrassed.

“And partly because I wanted to see my best friend’s wife. The one he loved with all his heart.”

That changed the air between us.

I looked down at Robert’s letter.

My heart gave a stupid little flutter I hadn’t felt in years.

That changed the air between us.

Then he reached across the table and simply turned his hand palm-up between us.

I looked at it for a second.

Then placed mine in his.

***

I stayed in Australia three weeks longer than planned.

Arthur showed me places tourists missed. We listened to records and ate terrible sandwiches near the beach.

I looked at it for a second.

He took me to the lake where he and Robert had stayed as young men.

The cottage was long gone; the water wasn’t.

We stood on the shore together.

“I thought coming here would make me sad,” I said.

“Does it?”

“A little.”

Then I smiled.

“But not only sad.”

We stood on the shore.

***

I didn’t cancel the rest of my trip.

Instead, Arthur accompanied me for two stops.

Then I continued alone.

***

Over time, my children slowly started calling again.

Karen apologized first.

I continued alone.

Then Melissa admitted she’d been angry because my leaving forced her to see how much she’d relied on me.

David took longer.

Eric finally said, “I guess I thought the house meant you’d always be there.”

I told him, “I’m still your mother. I’m just not your furniture.”

We both laughed.

David took longer.

***

Arthur and I kept talking.

Every day.

Six months later, I returned to Australia.

Not because Robert had subliminally sent me there, or because my children had pushed me away.

I did it because I wanted to.

Arthur and I kept talking.

Arthur met me at the airport, holding a tiny cardboard sign that said:

“ABIGAIL – COFFEE STILL OWED!”

I laughed so hard that I cried!

***

I still travel.

Sometimes with Arthur.

Sometimes alone.

I still travel.

And the painting now hangs in the little apartment Arthur and I share part of the year.

Below it, framed beside Robert’s letter, is a receipt from the first coffee Arthur bought me after I returned.

Twelve dollars exactly.

***

At my age, I thought selling my house meant I was walking away from the life I’d built.

I was wrong.

The painting now hangs in the little apartment.

I was finally walking into the part of it I’d kept postponing.

And somehow, halfway around the world, I found a piece of the man I loved and one I never expected to befriend.

For the first time in my life, “someday” wasn’t waiting for me anymore.

I was already there.