School mornings.
Arguments.
Vacations.
Small jokes.
Ordinary Tuesdays.
I had believed the sandwiches were feeding Edward.
Instead, they had been feeding Robert.
But the notes?
Every single word had reached my husband.
He had read them.
Saved them.
Carried them.
Somehow, that mattered enormously.
Edward returned around 4:30.
We talked until seven.
I called my mother and asked her to collect Jamie from aftercare.
She simply said yes.
No questions.
Then Edward told me everything.
Architecture school.
Night classes after construction shifts.
The licensing exams.
His fear of failing.
He had originally kept school secret because he didn’t want to tell me he was chasing something if there was a chance he wouldn’t succeed.
“I would’ve loved you through failing,” I told him.
“I know that now.”
“I would have loved every version of you.”
“I believe you.”
He looked down.
“I probably believed it then too, somewhere underneath the fear.”
