I had been a little girl running toward an ice cream truck.
And two people I barely remembered had been genuinely happy every time they saw me coming.
They had never had children.
But in the only way life had allowed them, they had had us.
Walter wrote:
You were somebody’s joy.
Then he mentioned Ellie.
Seeing my childhood face in my daughter had nearly stopped his heart.
Margaret, he said, would have been thrilled to know that the little girl who always said “thank you, mister” had grown up and raised a kind little girl of her own.
His final sentence made me laugh through my tears.
Save one strawberry shortcake bar for me.
Walter.
I sat at that kitchen table and cried until my tea was completely cold.
Because there was something Walter could never have known.
For years, I had felt profoundly alone.
Not constantly.
Not dramatically.
