How was the letter related to that?

And why was no one standing in the wings to help her after she was released tomorrow except a few friends and an employee who hadn’t even been in her life two weeks ago?

“Looking good, Beth.” The nurse finished checking her vitals and positioned the call button by her hand. “If you want anything or have any concerns, though, don’t hesitate to alert us.”

“I won’t.”

As the woman left, Beth picked up the envelope Christi had delivered half an hour ago, addressed in Steve’s familiar hand.

Another card. Just like the ones he’d sent every ten days or so since she’d moved out.

None of which she’d opened.

They were all in a box on the shelf in her bedroom closet, gathering dust.

Why bother to read them? There was nothing he could say to fix the damage. Jonathan was gone. Period.

And a son couldn’t be replaced like a bum knee.

The familiar soul-deep grief squeezed her heart, and pressure built behind her eyes, blurring her vision.

God, why? Why?

The silent cry of anguish came from the depths of her soul. It was the same question she’d flung to the heavens over and over again in the days and weeks after they lost Jonathan.

But eventually, when God had remained mute, she’d stopped asking.

Stopped believing he cared.

Stopped trusting he was more interested in her welfare than her woe.

Stopped turning to him for comfort.

So why had the question burst out again tonight?

Had Christi’s comment about adversity leading her to the Almighty rather than away from him prompted it?

Maybe.

But it hadn’t worked like that in her situation. Her faith had been strong until God had betrayed her. How could you love a God you couldn’t trust?

How could Christi?

If her new employee had been as down-and-out as she’d appeared at their first meeting, why hadn’t her faith suffered?

Beth fingered the blue envelope. Her favorite color, as Steve knew. There’d been an abundance of blue envelopes these past months, each one sending a clear message that he wanted to reconnect.

Yet he’d honored her wishes for space. Respected her request to keep his distance until—or unless—she wanted to talk.

So far, that hadn’t happened.

She leaned over and slid the envelope under the box of tissues on her tray. Out of sight.

Yes, she missed him. Missed the affectionate touches, the surprise carryouts he used to bring home, the impromptu outings he’d planned, the cuddling together in bed on cold, rainy nights.

But she couldn’t get past the bitterness or anger or resentment. Couldn’t forgive him, despite the platitudes about mercy and compassion and understanding she’d once spouted.

And until she did, this card would join all the others in the dusty box in her dark closet.

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