For 65 beautiful years, Martin and I shared a love that began in childhood. After he passed, I finally opened the locked drawer in his office and found a stack of letters.
With trembling hands, I read the first one. They weren’t written to another woman. Every letter was addressed to me — written over decades on special days when he felt too emotional to speak. He poured his heart into them, telling me how much he loved me, how proud he was of our life together, and how grateful he was that I chose him.
Even in death, he reminded me I was his greatest gift.
