I folded hers carefully and put it beside the restored fountain pen.

She slipped mine into the same envelope that held a copy of her first letter, the one that had never reached me when it mattered.

“Do you regret marrying me?” I asked.

She looked up, surprised by the question.

“I regret how little we knew about being married.

I don’t regret you.”

I breathed out slowly.

“I don’t regret you either.”