I stopped breathing for a second.
There were 24 envelopes, one for every year of our marriage.
Anthony’s handwriting was on every single one.
Year One. Year Two. Year Three, all the way to Year Twenty-Four.
My mouth went dry.
There were 24 envelopes.
I opened the first one so fast I tore the corner.
“Year One of Us:
Ember,
Thank you for marrying a man with more hope than furniture.”
I laughed, and then I made a sound that wasn’t laughter at all.
“Oh, Anthony,” I mumbled to the empty car.
I opened the first one.
“Thank you for pretending our apartment wasn’t terrible when the radiator hissed all night, and the upstairs neighbor practiced trumpet like he had declared war on sleep.
Thank you for eating spaghetti on milk crates with me and calling it romantic if we squinted.
Thank you for choosing me when I was still mostly all plans and not enough action.”
I could hear his voice in every line, just my husband, acting like devotion was the most natural thing in the world.
I opened another.
I could hear his voice in every line.
“Year Eleven of Us:
Ember,
Thank you for holding my face in both your hands the day I lost my job and for saying, ‘We aren’t ruined, Tony. We’re just scared. We’re going to make it work.’
I have lived inside those words ever since.”
I closed my eyes.
“Year Eleven of Us”
That had happened in our driveway.
He’d come home holding a cardboard box, trying not to look too crestfallen. I had been in an apron dusted with flour, testing cinnamon rolls from one of the bakery recipes I’d once sworn I would build a life around.
He’d said, “I failed you.”
And I’d told him, “For heaven’s sake, get in the house before the neighbors enjoy this.”
