His voice cracked.
“I love you too.”
“But loving you doesn’t mean living for you.”
He began crying.
I let him.
Sometimes tears were the first honest thing someone had left.
“I’ll see you when I’m ready,” I said.
Then I hung up.
Six months later, the ship returned to Miami.
I walked ashore carrying the same blue suitcase.
But the woman carrying it had changed.
Mrs. Mary waited near the terminal.
She hugged me immediately.
“You look different.”
“I feel different.”
She laughed.
“What are you going to do now?”
I looked toward Miami.
Then toward the road that led home.
“I think I’m going to sell the house.”
Mary raised an eyebrow.
“The house?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“Ernest and I built it together. I don’t want it to become a battlefield.”
“And where will you live?”
I smiled.
“Somewhere with a porch.”
Mary laughed.
“Of course.”
