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But Margaret also taught her something more important.
“Never be too proud to say you love someone.”
Emily asked why.
“Because one day,” Margaret said softly, “you might wish you had said it one more time.”
Years passed.
Emily grew into a young woman.
She went to college.
Then she moved to another state.
Margaret still received letters.
Then phone calls.
Then fewer phone calls.
Life became busy.
Margaret understood.
She had been young once too.
Then, one winter morning, Margaret woke up feeling tired.
Very tired.
She walked into the kitchen.
Made two cups of coffee.
Placed two plates on the table.
And sat down.
But this time, she didn’t feel like eating.
She looked at Thomas’s empty chair.
“I think I’m ready,” she whispered.
That afternoon, Emily received a phone call.
She immediately drove through the night.
When she arrived at Margaret’s house, the kitchen light was still on.
Emily opened the door.
“Margaret?”
No answer.
She walked into the kitchen.
There were two plates on the table.
Two cups of coffee.
And an envelope resting beside the second plate.
Emily opened it with trembling hands.
Inside was a short letter.
My dear Emily,
If you’re reading this, then I suppose I finally got tired of waiting for that old man of mine.
I want you to know something.
You were never a little girl who happened to knock on my door.
You were the answer to a prayer I didn’t know I had.
After Thomas died, I thought my life was finished.
Then you came into my kitchen carrying that broken umbrella.
You gave me something I thought I’d lost forever.
Someone to love.
So don’t spend your life being afraid of losing people.
Love them anyway.
Make the phone call.
Visit when you can.
Forgive quickly.
And when someone you love is sitting across from you at the table, don’t ever be too busy to look up and tell them.
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