The Envelope at the Gate
On departure day, I arrived three hours early.
I checked my passport repeatedly, terrified something would go wrong.
A wave of weakness forced me to sit down. I took a sip of water and waited for it to pass.
Then the loudspeaker crackled. “Mrs. Wilson, please come to the desk at your boarding gate.”
My stomach dropped.
I hurried over. “Excuse me. I’m Mrs. Wilson. Is something wrong with my ticket?”
The employee smiled. “Not at all. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me?”
“Someone arranged for this to be delivered.”
She handed me a cream-colored envelope.
“There’s something you still don’t know about this trip.”
“Who sent it?”
“I’m afraid I only have instructions to give it to you.”
Inside was an old letter.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
Richard’s.
‘My darling Sparrow,
I finally bought that little apartment in Paris we always dreamed about. I wanted it to be your anniversary surprise.
One day, we’ll sit on the balcony together.
All my love, Richard.’
There was an address, a photograph of a building, and an old purchase document.
“My husband wrote this,” I whispered.
“Are you all right?” the employee asked.
“He died thirty-two years ago.”
Before I could think clearly, boarding began.
I boarded carrying one question.
Why had Richard hidden an apartment from me?
During the flight, I remembered our early marriage.
“Someday, Sparrow, I’m taking you to Paris.”
He called me Sparrow because I was always rushing around, talking a mile a minute.
“With what money?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“And where will we stay?”
“Our own apartment.”
“With a balcony?”
“Obviously.”
Then came the bills, the children, and Richard’s frequent business trips to Europe.
“Paris again?” I’d ask.
“The company’s expanding, Maggie. These trips help pay the mortgage.”
I’d believed him.
May you like
Now I wondered whether he’d secretly saved for our dream.
But if he’d bought that apartment for me, why hadn’t anyone mentioned it after his death?
