"That's me." Cal raised an eyebrow. "Sign here." The messenger held out a clipboard. Cal signed and the messenger handed him a large manila envelope. Curious, Cal ripped open the envelope and a white number ten envelope fell out. It was addressed in a familiar hand, "To my dearest Cal." Catching his breath, he said, softly, "Brenda." His eyes got moist as he walked to the study and found a letter opener. Inside there was a small sheaf of paper, written in Brenda's precise hand. Dear Cal: If my lawyer followed my instructions, you are reading this on the anniversary of my death. Rest assured that I am in a better place. The doctor told me today that I had another two weeks to live. He may be off by a few days either way, but I believe him. Soon I will not be able to write through the haze of the morphine, so I put off the nurse so that I would have a clearer head to write this. We had a truly wonderful time together, Cal. I was hoping for more than thirty-five years together, but I'm not sorry for anything.
