Saying Goodbye

She wasn't expecting a letter. She recognized Matthew's precise, controlled handwriting before she looked at the return address, and her fingers fumbled a bit as she tore at the flap. She wondered what would prompt him to write now, three years after that sunny April afternoon when the life they'd known together had ended.

They had called it a mutual decision. And perhaps, it was. She couldn't recall now which of them had first said that maybe it would be better if they were apart. And she'd never quite known why they'd decided that.

It would be easy to say it was the baby, the one she had wanted fiercely and the one that he wasn't sure about. The baby that had been gone before either of them was quite used to the idea, before they'd picked out names or decorated the nursery. Yes, it would be easy to say it was the baby.

But, she thought it was probably about much more mundane things. The way she sometimes called him Matt instead of Matthew, forgetting, or perhaps ignoring, the fact that he hated nicknames of all sorts. Or the way he always, always called her Victoria. Not Tori like her friends. Not even Vicki like most of her family. But always Victoria.

Whatever the reason, they had stood that afternoon in the living room with sun streaming through the apartment's large bay window - the thing that had made her fall in love with the place, a notion Matthew had never quite understood. The sun made the room cheerful and alive, not at all a fitting backdrop for the requiem of their seven years together.

They had promised to be friends, to keep in touch, but, of course, they never had. Being together when they weren't really together would have been too much a reminder of all the things left undone, too much a reproach of the ways they had failed each other.

And so she wasn't prepared for the letter. Three short lines: I hope all is well. I think about you often. Call or write sometime if you want. He had signed it simply Matthew and then listed his phone and email. No hint if this was apology or friendship or a hope of something more.

She tried to imagine calling him. "Hi Matthew. It's Tori. Got your letter." Then what? "Let's meet for coffee." Too ambivalent. "Why don't we meet for drinks?" Too suggestive. "Come for dinner." Too familiar. "Why did you write?" Too blunt.

After he had left - after she had cried and raged and pondered calling him to say, "Come back. We'll make it work." - she had dyed her hair, changed jobs. She had a new apartment with hardwood floors and three huge windows to let in the sunlight. She had new furniture, whimsical artwork on the walls, new friends. Matthew's world was not a place she inhabited anymore.

She sometimes thought about him, a fleeting memory of what they'd had and a hazy dream of what might have been. Each year on what would have been the baby's due date, she thought about calling him up. Asking What do you think would have happened if . . . if we hadn't lost the baby . . . if we were a family . . . if we had been better together. But she never did.

She put the letter on the counter, gently caressing the envelope. She told herself perhaps she would call sometime. Perhaps.