Frank’s letter began the way he began every anniversary card: To my mermaid. He wrote it the week the doctors told us there was nothing left to do. He prayed that even if he couldn’t be there, I would still find my courage. “You were never afraid of the sea,” he wrote. “You were afraid of being far from home. So I’m sending home to you.”
Inside the box, wrapped in tissue paper, lay a midnight-blue gown, the exact color of the dress I wore the night we met. Forty-four silver balloons had risen from around it and were bumping softly against the ceiling, one for every year we were married. Pinned to the gown was a small card in Frank’s handwriting. Put this on. Someone is waiting for you in the ballroom at eight. And it isn’t me.
