Almost.
I went upstairs.
Corinne called after me, irritated.
“Mom, don’t turn this into something ugly.”
I closed my bedroom door.
Edmund’s flannel shirt was still folded across his pillow.
I sat beside it.
For several minutes, I cried into the fabric like a child.
Then I remembered a phone call I had received a week before Edmund died.
A local journalist named Talia Monroe had asked whether I would consider speaking about my husband.
I had refused.
Edmund was private.
He hated praise.
Talia had accepted my answer, but before hanging up, she said something strange.
“If you ever change your mind, Mrs. Hartley, call me directly. Your husband wanted the choice to remain yours.”
At the time, I was too exhausted to ask what she meant.
Now I found her number.
She answered immediately.
“Mrs. Hartley?”
“My name is Beatrice,” I said. “And I think I’m ready.”
