Around the time I moved back, my cousin Raymond started calling me non-stop. We hadn’t spoken in nearly thirty years, so it was strange how obsessed he was with my finances, my credit cards, and my bank accounts. At one point, he insisted I let him manage my money, pointing out that he had done the same for our late Aunt Margaret. For some reason, I felt incredibly uncomfortable sharing those details with him. We simply weren’t close. Yet, Raymond kept calling, asking the same probing questions over and over again.
Not long after, while working a night shift and pushing my cart down the hall, I stopped at Room 220 to check on a new long-term care patient. I looked at the chart and saw the name: Thomas. Could he be my Thomas?
It turned out he was.
Of course, he was decades older than when I had last seen him, but I knew it was him the moment I looked into his eyes. They hadn’t changed at all. From then on, I made every excuse to slip into his room. We talked about the lives we had led, our shared love for black coffee, and the struggles we had faced along the way. He told me he had never married.
During one of those quiet conversations, Thomas asked if I had any family left nearby. I told him about my cousin Raymond’s relentless calls and strange questions about my money. The moment I said Raymond’s name, Thomas clenched his jaw. He quietly admitted that he and his lawyer, Walter, knew exactly who Raymond was, and they knew Raymond had maliciously swindled Aunt Margaret out of her entire life savings. Though Thomas quickly tried to steer the conversation elsewhere to keep me from worrying, I could see a fierce determination in his eyes.
Shortly afterward, Thomas took a turn for the worse. Holding my hand one afternoon, he told me he had very little time left, but before he died, he had one last request, that we marry.
Shocked by the suddenness of it all, yet suddenly feeling like the seventeen-year-old girl I was when we first fell in love, I couldn’t help but say yes.
Three days later, we were married at his hospital bedside. A nurse served as our witness, alongside Thomas’s lawyer, an unobtrusive man named Walter who carried a briefcase stuffed with papers. Trusting Thomas implicitly, I simply signed everywhere Walter pointed.
That same night, when I told Raymond, he flew into a rage. He screamed at me through the phone, calling me a fool and claiming Thomas was just tricking an old nurse to get her pension. He ordered me to get an annulment immediately, but I hung up on him.
The next day, Walter met with me privately and handed me a small, polished wooden box Thomas had left behind. Inside was the deed to Thomas’s family home, the trust documents, and a thick bundle of fifty-five letters—one for every single year we had been apart.
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A few days later, Raymond showed up at my apartment door, furious and waving a folder of legal threats. Luckily, Walter was already sitting at my kitchen table having tea. He calmly looked up and told Raymond that the trust Thomas had set up was entirely airtight, and that if he tried to fight it in court, he’d lose everything.
Raymond glared at me, sneering, “Stupid old lady.”
I just looked back at him and said, “No, Raymond. I’m a woman who was actually loved. There’s a difference.” He turned on his heel and never came back.
That spring, I moved into Thomas’s old house. Now, every Sunday morning, I make myself a cup of black coffee, sit by the window, and open one of his letters. Some of them are about his daily routine, others are about what he wished our life had been, but they all remind me of one thing: I was never forgotten. Even after he was gone, Thomas had found a way to keep me safe.
