Inside was a small leather purse.
And inside – coins wrapped in cloth, old banknotes, a silver chain and, above all, a letter yellowed by time.
With trembling fingers, I unfolded the paper.
“Althea,
I’ve been collecting this for all these years.
I have never had anything to repay for what you have done for me.
It’s not much, but it’s yours.
Not for your concern.
For the love you didn’t have to have for me, but you did.
Thank you for every day.
Bill.”
The tears flowed continuously. Not for the money – it didn’t matter.
I cried because in the torn pillow I found proof that for twelve years he had seen everything.
Every night.
Every gesture.
Every sacrifice others thought was foolish.
And that with his last breath he would tell me:
To him, I was family.
Not out of duty.
Of love.
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