I carefully placed the ring back inside.
“I’ve spent 62 years speaking to Benjamin as though he could still hear me.”
Although my hands continued to shake, my voice had become steady.
“If he’s close enough to answer, I’m not waiting another day.”
I looked directly at Edward.
“Take me to him.”
During the drive, I asked whether Benjamin had ever spoken about me.
“He remembers emotions better than details,” Edward replied. “Sometimes he talked about a girl wearing yellow whose hands shook.”
“Mine,” I whispered.
“The night before he left, I wore yellow because he said I looked like walking sunshine and that it made him feel brave.”
“Were you brave?”
Edward smiled faintly.
“My father always said courage meant being afraid but moving forward anyway.”
I smiled through the ache.
“He stole that from me.”
For a brief second, Edward looked so much like Benjamin that I had to turn toward the window.
I found myself imagining the life we might have shared—and the son we never had.
Then I forced myself to ask the question I had been avoiding.
“Did he marry?”
Edward’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“Yes.”
The single word landed harder than I expected.
“Who was she?”
“My mother helped him recover after he came home.”
“Yes.”
“Did she know about me?”
“She knew there had been someone before the war. She never knew your name.”
“Did he love her?”
Edward took several moments before answering.
“Yes.”
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