I didn't sit down.
Arthur remained near the doorway, watching me with an expression I couldn't read.
“You said Robert gave you that painting.”
“I said he sent it to me.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“How many years?”
Arthur looked toward the fireplace.
“More than twenty.”
I stepped closer to the painting.
There was a small patch near the dock where the blue-gray paint had been mixed unevenly. Robert had done that when he was tired. I knew because I had watched him paint it.
He never corrected it.
I had once asked why.
He said, “Because the lake isn't perfect either.”
I touched the edge of the frame without quite touching the canvas.
“Where did he get this?”
Arthur pulled out a chair.
“Please sit.”
“I'd rather stand.”
He nodded.
“All right.”
He took a slow breath.
“I met Robert when I was twenty-four.”
I looked at him.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Long before you knew him.”
The words struck me harder than they should have.
I knew Robert had traveled before we met.
I knew he'd spent some time in Australia.
But he had rarely spoken about that period.
Not because he was secretive.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
Arthur continued.
“Robert was younger than me. Maybe twenty-two or twenty-three. He was working at a hotel outside Melbourne.”
“You worked there too?”
“For a while.”
“What was he like?”
Arthur smiled.
“Hopeless with luggage.”
I almost laughed.
Robert had been hopeless with practical things.
He once put a bag of groceries on the roof of our car and drove away.
He had forgotten it until an apple rolled onto the windshield.
Arthur saw my expression.
“You recognize that.”
“I do.”
Arthur smiled.
“He was always convinced he could carry more than he actually could.”
For the first time since entering the room, my fear loosened slightly.
It was really him.
The stories were too specific.
Arthur moved toward the fireplace.
“That painting began with a place we visited together.”
He pointed at the lake.
“There was a cottage near here. Nothing fancy. We stayed there for a few days when we had almost no money.”
“Robert painted this there?”
“The first version.”
I frowned.
“The first?”
Arthur nodded.
“He painted several versions over the years.”
I turned toward him.
“The one I had was destroyed.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because Robert told me.”
The room went silent.
“How did you know that?”
Arthur didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he walked toward an old wooden cabinet.
He opened the bottom drawer and removed a small box.
My stomach tightened.
He carried it to the coffee table and placed it between us.
The box was scratched and faded.
Arthur rested his hands on the lid.
“Before I show you this, there's something you should understand.”
I said nothing.
“Robert never told me everything about his life.”
“Neither did he tell me everything.”
Arthur gave me a sad smile.
“I suspect that was one of his better qualities.”
Then he opened the box.
Letters.
Dozens of them.
Some were folded.
Some were inside envelopes.
Some had stamps from countries I recognized.
I reached toward the nearest envelope.
The handwriting stopped me.
Robert.
There was no mistaking it.
I picked it up.
My fingers trembled.
“How long did you know each other?”
Arthur sat across from me.
“On and off for decades.”
“Decades?”
“Yes.”
“And he wrote to you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why didn't I know?”
Arthur looked down.
“I don't know.”
That answer irritated me.
“You must have some idea.”
“He wasn't hiding another life from you.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
I put the letter down.
Arthur continued carefully.
“We lost contact for years at a time. Life happened. Jobs. Marriage. Children. Moving. Then, later, we found each other again.”
“When?”
“When Robert became sick.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“You contacted him?”
“No. He found me.”
“How?”
“Through an old friend.”
Arthur's fingers rested on the wooden box.
“He wrote because he knew he didn't have much time.”
I stared at the envelopes.
“How long?”
“A little over a year.”
The room seemed colder.
“What did he write about?”
Arthur looked at me.
“You.”
My eyes filled before I could stop them.
“What did he say?”
“Mostly ordinary things.”
“Such as?”
“That you hated folding laundry.”
I laughed unexpectedly.
“That is true.”
“That you pretended to enjoy gardening but mostly enjoyed telling him what he was doing wrong.”
“That is also true.”
Arthur smiled.
“He wrote about your children. Your grandchildren. The house. Your cooking.”
I wiped under one eye.
“He complained about my cooking?”
“He said your soup was excellent.”
“He lied.”
Arthur laughed.
For a few seconds, the room felt almost normal.
Then he became serious again.
“He was worried about you.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“He thought you were forgetting how to live for yourself.”
The sentence settled heavily between us.
I looked down at my hands.
Arthur continued.
“Robert said you always postponed things.”
I swallowed.
“He said you were always planning a trip.”
I looked at the painting.
“He remembered that?”
“He remembered everything.”
I sat back.
For years after Robert died, I had wondered whether he had understood how badly I wanted to travel.
We had talked about it countless times.
Then illness changed everything.
After he died, I stopped making plans.
Arthur reached into the box.
“There is one letter I was specifically asked to keep.”
He removed an envelope.
My name was written on it.
Abigail.
Robert's handwriting.
My heart began beating faster.
“Why didn't you send it?”
“He told me not to.”
“Why?”
“He wanted you to receive it only if you came to Australia.”
I stared at him.
“You knew I might come here?”
“He hoped you would.”
“Why?”
Arthur looked at me for a long moment.
“Because Australia mattered to him.”
I turned toward the painting.
“And this?”
“He wanted you to see it.”
“Why this particular painting?”
“Because it reminded him of who he was before he became everyone's husband, father, provider, and caretaker.”
I closed my eyes.
That description sounded painfully familiar.
Arthur slid the envelope across the table.
“Open it.”
I couldn't.
Not immediately.
The paper seemed impossibly heavy.
“What if I don't want to know?”
“Then don't.”
“What if it makes everything worse?”
“Then I'll sit here while it does.”
I looked at him.
That was perhaps the kindest thing anyone had said to me in years.
I opened the envelope.
The letter was four pages.
The first lines were simple.
Robert wrote about Australia.
About being young.
About being broke.
About the lake.
About meeting Arthur.
Then he wrote about me.
He wrote that he hoped I would one day stop confusing sacrifice with love.
I had to put the letter down.
Arthur looked away.
I picked it up again.
Robert wrote that if I ever came to Australia after he was gone, I should not treat the trip as a shrine to him.
I should enjoy it.
I should eat something he would have hated.
I should stay somewhere beautiful longer than planned.
I should leave somewhere dull without feeling guilty.
I should spend money on myself.
And, most importantly, I should stop waiting for everyone else to approve of my happiness.
My vision blurred.
The final lines were almost impossible to read.
Robert had written that he regretted helping me believe that life could always be postponed.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
“I don't understand,” I whispered.
Arthur didn't interrupt.
“I did everything with him.”
“I know.”
“I stayed when he was sick.”
“I know.”
“I gave everything I had.”
Arthur's voice was quiet.
“He knew.”
“Then why would he say I needed to live for myself?”
“Because he loved you.”
That answer broke something open in me.
I cried.
Not loudly.
There was no dramatic collapse.
Just tears that wouldn't stop.
Arthur stayed where he was.
He didn't touch me.
He didn't tell me everything would be fine.
He simply waited.
Eventually, I laughed through my tears.
“What did he mean about coffee?”
Arthur smiled.
“That?”
“He mentioned you owing him money.”
Arthur sighed.
“Twelve dollars.”
“For coffee?”
“For dinner.”
I laughed.
“You never paid him?”
“I intended to.”
“Apparently you had twenty years.”
“I was waiting for the right opportunity.”
“You're a terrible friend.”
“I've been told.”
I laughed again.
It was strange.
I had walked into that room expecting nothing more than an afternoon coffee.
Instead, I had found a man who had known Robert before me, a painting I thought was gone forever, and a letter that seemed to know me better than I knew myself.
I stayed until the sun went down.
Arthur told me more stories.
He told me about Robert getting lost in Melbourne and refusing to admit it.
He told me about a jazz concert where Robert fell asleep halfway through the second song.
He told me about the lake.
And he told me about a night when Robert had spoken about me for nearly an hour.
“What did he say?”
Arthur smiled.
“He said you were stubborn.”
“That sounds right.”
“He said you were generous.”
I looked away.
“He said you were stronger than you believed.”
I didn't answer.
Arthur's voice softened.
“And he said you would spend your entire life making sure everyone else was comfortable if someone didn't stop you.”
I looked at him.
“Did he ask you to stop me?”
“No.”
“Then why did he keep this letter?”
“Because he knew I couldn't.”
I didn't understand.
Arthur stood and walked toward the window.
“He couldn't make that choice for you either.”
That sentence stayed with me.
The next morning, I returned to the bookstore where we had met.
Arthur was already there.
He was holding the detective novel.
“You left this.”
“I thought you wanted it.”
“I finished it.”
“You read quickly.”
“I skipped the boring parts.”
I smiled.
We walked to a café.
I told him I was staying in Australia longer.
“How much longer?”
“Three weeks.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
“You sound relieved.”
“I was hoping you wouldn't disappear.”
“I've been disappearing for years.”
He looked at me.
“Perhaps you should stop.”
I didn't answer.
But I thought about it.
Over the next days, Arthur showed me the city from his perspective.
Not the postcard version.
The quiet streets.
The tiny market where he bought tomatoes.
A beach where almost nobody went in the late afternoon.
A record shop with dusty shelves.
A park where old men played chess beneath enormous trees.
We talked more.
Sometimes about Robert.
Sometimes about Anne.
Sometimes about nothing.
One evening, I asked him why he had invited me to his home.
He hesitated.
“Because I wanted you to see the painting.”
“That isn't the whole answer.”
“No.”
“What is the rest?”
Arthur looked at me.
“I wanted to meet the woman Robert spent so many years talking about.”
My chest tightened.
“You knew it was me when we met?”
“No.”
“Not at first?”
“No.”
“When did you realize?”
“The second afternoon.”
I stared at him.
“You're telling me you recognized my husband's name?”
“Not immediately.”
“Then what?”
“You mentioned the town where you and Robert had lived.”
I remembered.
“And you said nothing.”
“I wasn't sure.”
“You could have asked.”
Arthur smiled faintly.
“Imagine being approached by a stranger who says, ‘Excuse me, are you the wife of my dead friend?’”
“That would be awkward.”
“Exactly.”
“So you decided coffee was safer.”
“It seemed reasonable.”
I laughed.
Then his expression became serious.
“I didn't want to frighten you.”
“You didn't.”
“I almost did.”
“When?”
He looked toward the painting in the distance through the open doorway.
“When you walked into my living room.”
I followed his gaze.
The painting was still there.
Waiting.
And suddenly I understood something.
The painting hadn't merely brought Robert back into my life.
It had brought me to a question I had spent twelve years avoiding.
Who was I supposed to become now that I no longer had anyone to take care of?
I didn't know the answer.
But for the first time, I wanted to find out.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: The Letter Robert Left Behind Changed What I Thought His Silence Meant, but It Also Forced Me to Face Why My Children Were Angry
I Had Spent Sixty-Nine Years Believing My Life Could Wait, Until One Morning I Realized Everyone Else Had Already Claimed My Time
Part 2 of 12
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