We saved for months to make the trip.
Two days later, we flew home to America.
Then life began moving.
Robert worked long hours.
I worked too.
We bought a house with a mortgage that frightened us both.
Our first child arrived.
Then our second.
Then our third.
Life began moving.
There were school lunches, broken appliances, braces, birthday parties, and endless loads of laundry.
Some years, we barely had money left after paying the bills.
Other years, we had a little extra and spent it repairing something that had stopped working.
We always talked about traveling.
Other years, we had a little extra.
“Once the kids are older,” we’d say.
Then it became, “Once the mortgage is paid.”
Then, “Once we retire.”
Somehow, forty-five years passed.
When Robert finally retired, I found him sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop open.
“Once we retire.”
He was wearing his reading glasses halfway down his nose.
“Karen,” he said, “how would you feel about going to Italy?”
I laughed.
“Right now?”
“Not this minute. I haven’t packed.”
He turned the screen toward me.
Two airline tickets.
“How would you feel about going to Italy?”
I stared at them.
“Robert.”
“We’ve been saving for something our whole lives.”
“I know, but that’s a lot of money.”
“For what?”
I hesitated.
He smiled.
“Maybe this is what it’s for, darling.”
So we went.
I hesitated.
**
I packed too many sweaters.
Robert forgot his phone charger.
We argued about whether we needed to print our hotel reservations.
And when our plane landed in Italy, he took my hand as though we were twenty-five again.
Our plane landed in Italy.
We spent several days wandering through streets we’d barely remembered.
Robert insisted he knew the way to a restaurant we’d visited after our wedding.
He led us in the wrong direction for twenty minutes.
When we finally found it, the restaurant had become a shoe store.
We spent several days wandering through streets.
He stood outside looking offended.
“They could’ve told me.”
“Forty-five years ago?”
“Would’ve been polite.”
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
The next morning, we went to the church.
He stood outside looking offended.
It stood at the end of a narrow street, tucked between old stone buildings.
The courtyard was smaller than I remembered.
The front steps were the same.
Robert stopped at the bottom.
“Careful,” he said.
The front steps were the same.
I gave him a look.
“One more word about those steps and you’re walking back to the hotel.”
Inside, the church was quiet.
Sunlight fell across the narrow wooden pews.
The painted walls had been carefully maintained, and the little altar looked almost exactly as I remembered.
Inside, the church was quiet.
I walked slowly down the aisle.
Robert followed.
“That’s where your mother sat,” I said, pointing to the front pew.
“She cried through the whole ceremony.”
“She cried because you nearly dropped the ring.”
“I did not.”
I walked slowly down the aisle.
“You caught it against your jacket.”
He looked at me.
“You promised never to tell anyone.”
“I promised not to tell your mother.”
We sat together near the front.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
We sat together near the front.
I remembered how frightened I’d been that morning.
Not of marrying Robert.
Of everything that came afterward.
I hadn’t known whether we’d manage the mortgage we hoped to get.
I hadn’t known how many children we’d have or whether I’d be a good mother.
I remembered how frightened I’d been.
I’d only known that I wanted to try with him.
Robert touched my hand.
“Thinking about the wedding?”
“Thinking about how little we knew.”
He smiled.
“We knew enough.”
“Thinking about how little we knew.”
***
A woman approached us from the side aisle.
She looked about forty and wore a simple gray sweater.
“Excuse me,” she said in English. “May I help you?”
I smiled.
“Thank you, but we’re just visiting. We were married here forty-five years ago.”
A woman approached us.
She looked interested.
“Here?”
“Yes. We wanted to see it again.”
“May I ask your names?”
“Karen and Robert.”
“May I ask your names?”
She glanced toward a small office beside the entrance.
“One moment, please.”
She returned carrying a thick ledger.
The pages were old and slightly uneven at the edges.
“Do you remember the date?” she asked.
I told her.
“Do you remember the date?”
She turned several pages, her finger moving down a column of names. Then she stopped so abruptly that I looked up.
“Robert and Karen?”
“That’s us,” Robert said.
She looked from him to me.
“Both of you?”
“That’s us.”
I laughed softly.
“Yes. Still married.”
But she didn’t laugh.
She closed the ledger.
“Please wait here.”
Then she hurried toward the office.
Robert watched her go.
“Please wait here.”
“Did we forget to pay for something?”
“Forty-five years ago?”
“Maybe they charge interest.”
I smiled, but something about the woman’s expression bothered me.
She’d looked surprised.
Then worried.
She’d looked surprised.
***
A few minutes later, she returned.
She was holding an old envelope.
The paper had yellowed around the edges.
She carried it carefully, with both hands.
“My name is Sofia,” she said. “My mother worked here for most of her life.”
She was holding an old envelope.
She looked at the envelope.
“She died six years ago. Before that, she gave me something she had promised to keep.”
Robert straightened in his seat.
“What is it?”
“A letter.”
“For us?”
“What is it?”
Sofia nodded.
“Someone brought it here many years after your wedding. He said this was the only place he knew you might someday visit again. He asked my mother to give it to you if you ever returned together.”
I looked at Robert.
He looked just as confused as I felt.
“He asked my mother to give it to you if you ever returned together.”
“Why didn’t he mail it?” I asked.
“He didn’t know where you lived. My mother remembered your wedding because there were so few guests, and she’d helped arrange the flowers. She found your names in the register.”
“He didn’t know where you lived.”
Sofia held out the envelope.
“Someone made me promise I’d give this to you if you ever returned,” she added. “My mother. She had made the same promise to the man who left it.”
I accepted it.
“Someone made me promise I’d give this to you if you ever returned.”
Our names were written across the front in careful handwriting.
Robert and Karen.
No address.
No return name.
“Who left this?” I asked.
Sofia hesitated.
“I think you should read it first.”
“Who left this?”
Robert leaned closer.
I slid my finger beneath the flap.
Inside was a folded letter.
I opened it.
***
The first lines read:
Dear Karen and Robert,
You probably remember five people at your wedding.
I remember six.
I was the man Robert found crying on the church steps before the ceremony.
Inside was a folded letter.
I read the words again, suddenly afraid to continue.
Then I looked at my husband.
The color had drained from Robert’s face.
“Robert?”
He took off his glasses.
“Oh, my goodness.”
The color had drained from Robert’s face.
“You know who this is?”
He nodded.
I looked back at the letter.
You won’t remember my name, but I remember yours.
My name is Pietro.
“You know who this is?”
Robert put a hand over his mouth.
I had never heard that name before.
“Who was he?” I whispered.
Robert stared toward the church doors.
“There was a man sitting outside that morning.” He paused. “I thought he was waiting for someone.”
“Who was he?”
“What happened?”
Robert rubbed his forehead.
“I went out because I couldn’t find my cuff links.”
I almost smiled.
“You were looking for them everywhere.”
“What happened?”
“I found them in my pocket.” He looked down. “But before that, I saw him sitting on the low wall near the courtyard.”
The memory seemed to come back slowly.
“He was crying. Trying not to, but I could tell.”
I held the letter.
“Did you know him?”
“He was crying.”
“No.”
Robert looked embarrassed.
“I asked if he was all right. He said he was about to become a father.”
“Was something wrong?”
“He was about to become a father.”
“He’d lost his job. His wife was pregnant, and he hadn’t told her,” Robert said. “He said he was terrified she’d think he’d failed them.”
I looked toward the courtyard.
“What did you say?”
“He said he was terrified she’d think he’d failed them.”
Robert shook his head.
“That’s the part I’ve thought about.”
He folded his glasses into his shirt pocket.
“He asked me how I knew I was ready to get married.”
I waited.
“That’s the part I’ve thought about.”
“I told him I didn’t,” Robert added.
I looked at him.
“You said that?”
“I was nervous too, Karen.”
“About marrying me?”
“About being any good at it.”
“You said that?”
He gave a small, uncomfortable smile.
“I told him I didn’t know what I was doing. I just knew I wanted to be there.”
I unfolded the letter further.
“What else?”
“I just knew I wanted to be there.”
“He asked what would happen if he let his family down.” Robert looked toward the church doors again. “I said he’d have to show up again tomorrow.”
I watched him.
“That sounds like good advice.”
I watched him.
“I wasn’t sure it was.”
“Why?”
“Because he needed a job, Karen. He needed to tell his wife the truth. I couldn’t help him with either. When I went inside, he was still sitting there.”
“He needed to tell his wife the truth.”
I looked at the letter.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
Robert took a breath.
“It was his private trouble. And I didn’t think I’d done anything useful.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
***
For forty-five years, I’d known my husband as the man who fixed leaking faucets, checked the tires before long drives, and called our children when he knew they were having a hard week.
I’d never known he was afraid of getting things wrong.
For forty-five years, I’d known my husband.
I looked down at Pietro’s letter.
There was more.
Several pages.
I turned to the next one.
Robert, I don’t know whether you remember what you said to me.
But I went home that afternoon.
And for the first time in weeks, I told Elena the truth.
There was more.
My eyes filled.
I read the next sentence aloud.
“She was furious with me.”
Robert let out a startled laugh.
Then I kept reading.
My eyes filled.
She wasn’t furious because I’d lost my job.
She was furious because I’d decided she couldn’t be trusted to face the bad news with me.
I stopped.
Robert reached for my hand.
I turned another page.
Pietro had written about the weeks that followed.
She wasn’t furious because I’d lost my job.
About the arguments.
The bills they couldn’t pay.
The relatives who helped when they finally admitted they needed it.
Then I reached a sentence that made me cover my mouth.
The bills they couldn’t pay.
Our first child was born that winter.
I wasn’t ready to be a father that afternoon outside the church.
But I went home and began.
Robert leaned closer to read.
His hand trembled slightly against mine.
I went home and began.
And there, beneath Pietro’s signature, was one final line.
If you ever return, please ask for Elena at the bakery on Via Roma. There’s something I hope she can show you.
I looked at Robert.
He was staring at the address.
“Karen,” he said quietly, “I think we should go.”
There’s something I hope she can show you.
***
The bakery was only three streets away.
An elderly woman stood behind the counter, arranging pastries.
“Are you Elena?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I placed Pietro’s letter on the counter.
“My husband met Pietro outside the church forty-five years ago.”
“Are you Elena?”
Elena stopped arranging the pastries.
She looked at Robert.
“You’re the American?”
Robert nodded.
She came around the counter and took both his hands.
“Pietro talked about you for years.”
“You’re the American?”
“Is he here?” Robert asked.
Her expression softened.
“He died four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He had a good life. Not an easy one, but a good one.”
“He died four years ago.”
She brought us to a little table and returned with a photograph.
Pietro stood beside Elena, surrounded by grown children and grandchildren.
One little boy was laughing so hard his eyes were closed.
Robert studied the picture.
“He had all this?”
“We did,” Elena said.
“He had all this?”
She slid the photograph across the table toward him.
“Pietro came home from that church and told me he’d lost his job. I was furious he’d hidden it.”
Robert nodded.
“I remember how frightened he was.”
“He said you were frightened too.”
“I remember how frightened he was.”
Robert looked surprised.
“I never told him that.”
Elena smiled.
“He said he could tell.” She touched the photograph. “He remembered you because you didn’t pretend everything would be easy.”
“I never told him that.”
Robert removed his glasses.
For a while, he said nothing.
***
Later, we returned to the church courtyard.
Robert sat on the low wall where he’d met Pietro.
“I spent years wondering whether he was all right,” he said.
We returned to the church courtyard.
I sat beside him.
“Now you know.”
He looked at the photograph Elena had given us.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
***
Back at our hotel, I called our oldest daughter.
We’d been talking about getting everyone together for months.
“Now you know.”
This time, I suggested a date instead of offering to postpone.
“I’ll check with everyone,” she promised.
Robert was scrolling through the photographs we’d taken.
“Which one should we send the kids?” I asked.
He showed me a picture from outside the church.
“I’ll check with everyone.”
His jacket was crooked.
My hair had blown across my forehead.
We were both laughing.
“Should we take another tomorrow?” I asked.
We were both laughing.
Robert studied it.
“No. I like this one.”
I looked at the photograph again.
Then I sent it to our children.
“No. I like this one.”
