Paul searched.

But there was no one left.

With trembling hands, I opened Walter’s note.

“Edith,” it began.

“I always meant to tell you about this ring, but I never found the right moment.

The war taught me how fragile love can be. Keeping this ring was never about another woman. If anything, it reminded me every day how lucky I was to come home to you.

You were always my safe place.

Yours always,
Walter.”

Tears blurred my vision as I recognized the handwriting I had seen on grocery lists and birthday cards for decades.

For a brief moment I felt angry that he had never shared this story.

But then I heard Walter’s voice in the words, steady and sincere, and the anger softened.

The following morning Toby drove me to the cemetery before visitors arrived.

I placed the ring and Walter’s letter inside a small velvet pouch and laid it gently beside his grave.

For one frightening moment the day before, I had thought I had lost my husband twice—once to death, and once to a secret I didn’t understand.

But now I knew the truth.

After seventy-two years, I hadn’t known every part of Walter.

I had only known the part of him that loved me most.

And in the end, that was more than enough.

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