THE MAN WHO WANTED NOTHING
Finding Desmond took almost a month.
He was forty-one.
A construction supervisor.
Divorced.
One daughter.
Living two states away.
When I finally found him, I didn’t tell him about the money.
I simply said:
“My name is Camille.”
His expression hardened.
“You’re Bennett’s wife.”
I nodded.
“You married him seven days before he died.”
“Yes.”
He laughed bitterly.
“Of course he did.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
He turned away.
“I don’t want his money.”
“I didn’t come about the money.”
That stopped him.
I pulled the green backpack from my car.
“I came because he left you something.”
Desmond stared at it.
Then he saw the envelopes.
His face changed.
“No.”
“He wrote you.”
“I don’t want them.”
“He wrote one every year.”
“Stop.”
“He never stopped loving you.”
Desmond’s jaw tightened.
“You don’t know anything about us.”
“No.”
I handed him the first letter.
“But I know he wanted you to have these.”
He didn’t take it.
So I placed it on the hood of his truck.
Then I walked away.
I didn’t expect him to call.
But three hours later, my phone rang.
“Camille?”
It was Desmond.
“Yes?”
His voice broke.
“He wrote about Mom.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t read it.”
He swallowed.
“I need someone to sit here while I do.”
So I went back.
