I watched him.
“You love this.”
“Yes.”
“This is who you are.”
He looked toward the bridge.
“Yes.”
I walked a little farther.
“It really is beautiful.”
Edward smiled faintly.
“You’ve told me that before.”
“I sent you a photograph of your own bridge.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
“What did you feel when I sent it?”
He was silent for a long time.
“Like I was the luckiest man alive.”
Then he added,
“And the worst.”
“Because you wanted me to know?”
“Every day.”
He looked at me.
“Every evening, I came home wearing those overalls and told myself tomorrow would be the day.”
His voice dropped.
“And tomorrow became nine years.”
“Then tell me now.”
“All of it?”
“Everything.”
So we sat on a bench beside the bridge.
And for two hours, my husband told me about the career I had never known he had.
