An hour later, we pulled up to a small house.
And there she was. Dolly.
Older, slower, but unmistakably her. The way she tilted her head, the way she held the watering can—it was still Dolly.
Jake asked, “You want me to come with you?”
I nodded.
As we approached, Dolly stared. The watering can slipped from her hand.
“Colleen?”
“I found the letters,” I said.
Her expression shifted. “Martin promised he’d never tell you unless you were ready.”
Hearing his name broke me. “He’s gone. He passed this winter.”
Dolly’s face fell. “Oh, Col… I didn’t know.” She hugged me, and I hugged her back.
Inside, we sat together.
“All these years,” I whispered, “what did I do wrong?”
Her eyes filled. “Nothing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I shook my head. “That day, you walked out. You called me ‘insensitive.’ I didn’t even understand why.”
She covered her face. “It wasn’t you, Col. It was me. I found out I couldn’t have children, not long after you had Jake. That day I came over, you were talking about the kids, their milestones, the little things, and I just… broke. I couldn’t sit there and pretend I was okay.”
