The envelope was thin. Too thin for any news they thought mattered.

I stood at the kitchen countertop as I boiled my cup of tea and read the army’s careful words. We regret to inform you… died valiantly… for king and country.

That was it, no offer of help. Written by someone who didn’t care about the consequences of their words.

I folded the letter and sat it by his boots. They were still muddy from our last walk together. I had not cleaned them since he left. It was because they reminded me of him.

Another letter was laid beneath it. His.

I knew his handwriting in an instance, crooked, and rushed, as if it was written in between gunfire.

It read:

“My dearest,

They say this will all be over soon. I dream of the garden and the smell of your bread cooling on the windowsill. I keep your picture in my pocket. It reminds me that I belong to someone. I long for you every day.”

I pressed the paper to my mouth, breathing him in through the ink.

On the countertop lay my own letter, sealed and unsent.

I had written it four nights ago. I had written it carefully, in case he dropped it in the mud. I had written it softly, in case it frightened him.

I had written: You are going to be a father.

The army’s letter lay open beside his with my tear drops still drying. One said he would never come home. The other one said he would.

I tore my letter in half. Then again. Then again, until the words were nothing.

The fire took it.

Only then did I sit down.

Only then did I look at my hands.

They were resting where his child was growing.