The last letter was delivered one morning after David had left for the day. It was longer than any letter before it; I knew this because it came in a business envelope instead of a personal one like the others, and it seemed to weigh more. But it was the same person; I recognized the typewriter. I carried it up from the mailbox, up to our apartment, and thought for a long time about opening it. But I didn’t. I just sat on the bed for half the morning weighing it in my hands, feeling how heavy it was, and wondering whether or not, because it was so long, it would be even worse than the others before it. And then I decided if David wanted to tell me about it, he would, and if I could help him, I would, but if I couldn’t help him, I’d love him just the same. Then I put the letter on top of the dresser and left the room.

David came home very late. I was already undressed, in bed reading, when he came in and closed the door behind him. He smiled at me, then saw the letter on the dresser; he knew who it was from as well as I did. He looked down at me for a long time. Then he went to the dresser, opened it, neatly at one end, rather than across the top, sat down on the edge of the bed and read it. It seemed to take him hours. I sat and watched him as he read one page after another, putting each page at the back. When he was done, he sat and stared at the floor, holding it between his knees. Then he folded it and slid it back in the envelope and said, “Well, that’s the last one. He’s promised. Perhaps I’ll have some peace now.”

For a second I felt very warm and good inside because I was listening to his words, and not the way he’d said them.

I watched him, saying nothing as he undressed. I put out the light and we lay awake not touching each other for a long time. I knew he was awake because he was on his back; he can’t fall asleep on his back. Finally he sighed and although I knew he might think I was prying, I said, “David, isn’t there anything at all I can do? Anything at all?”

He was quiet for a long time, then sighed again. “You have a great deal of faith in me, don’t you.”

“Yes, David.”

“How did you ever come to have faith in me?” He didn’t ask that like he felt I shouldn’t have faith in him; it was rather like he wanted a factual answer. He always wanted me to put some feeling I had into words, and I always found it hard to do, but I tried.