Some were harder to read than I expected.

I had convinced myself he never understood why I left.

It turns out he understood more than I thought, even if he found it easier to write than to say.

I read the letter slowly.

There was no apology for the scene on my porch and no request for forgiveness.

There was something more tentative: an acknowledgment that Arthur’s life had contained relationships outside their quarrel.

He wrote that he had driven past the house and seen the new sign.