Near the pond, Amy asked whether I'd ever wondered what my life might have looked like if we'd never met. I told her I assumed I'd live in a smaller house, eat worse meals, and believe I was better at assembling furniture than I actually was. She smiled, then became thoughtful. "After I left Peter, I spent months thinking I'd ruined my only chance at a good marriage," she said. "Not because I wanted him back. Because everyone made marriage sound like a prize I'd carelessly thrown away. Meeting you taught me it wasn't a prize. It was a decision two people kept making."
"And a decision doesn't become less real because you once considered another one," I said. She looked at me with visible surprise. "That's what I've been trying to tell myself for years," she replied. "I wish I'd let you help me believe it." We stood beside the pond watching a duck chase another duck away from a patch of floating bread. It was not a profound scene in itself. Yet I remember it clearly because Amy's face looked tired and open, as if she were no longer trying to arrange her feelings into an acceptable shape.
On Monday, we returned to work. I spent the morning reviewing engineering plans for a water treatment upgrade, surrounded by the familiar language of flow rates, inspections, and timelines. Every task had a measurable answer, and I found that comforting. Still, between calls I caught myself remembering Amy at the restaurant and wondering whether there were entire conversations from our early years I'd misunderstood. I felt disloyal for questioning happy memories, then irritated with myself for believing questions were disloyal. Apparently I had my own lessons to learn about the difference between doubt and accusation.
Amy texted during lunch to ask whether I wanted her to pick up bread on the way home. Then another message arrived a minute later. "I also wanted to say I'm thinking about you," it read. "Not because I need reassurance. Just because I know the weekend was difficult, and I love you." I stared at the screen longer than necessary before replying that I loved her too. The messages were ordinary, but there was something new in the directness of hers. She had spoken about a feeling without wrapping it in a practical excuse.
When I got home, I found her sitting at the dining table with an old cardboard box open beside her. I recognized the box from our attic, where it had moved with us through two apartments and one house without anyone suggesting we throw it away. "I thought you might want to see something," she said. "Not because I owe you every part of the past. Because this is part of the story, and I've kept it shut away for so long that even I barely remember what's in here." She moved aside so I could sit next to her.