“He said you gave away all your time, energy, and resources to everyone else,” Bartholomew told me. “He wrote that you were always happiest when planning grand trips that you never actually permitted yourself to take.”
Tears began streaming down my face as I broke the paper seal on the envelope and began reading my husband’s final words.
Part 3: Living Without Permission
Theodore’s letter spanned four full pages, but one particular section pierced straight through my heart:
“Bernice, if you are reading these words in Australia, then you have finally taken the leap we talked about when we were young. If I am no longer by your side, please do not turn this adventure into a somber memorial for me. Explore new cities simply because you wish to see them. Eat unusual foods that I would have disliked, linger in beautiful places, and spend your money without offering an explanation to a single soul. Our children love you dearly, but do not allow your love for them to become an excuse for never living your own life.”
I placed a trembling hand over my mouth as I read the concluding lines:
“I asked Bartholomew to hold this letter because Australia was the place where I first learned to stand on my own two feet. I hope it offers the same freedom to you. And if old Bartholomew is still kicking around, make sure he buys the coffee, because he still owes me twelve dollars from our youth.”
I let out a sudden laugh through my tears, causing Bartholomew to look up with a subtle grin.
“I take it he brought up the twelve dollars?” Bartholomew asked dryly. “Charging interest after forty years seems entirely unreasonable.”
That witty remark made me laugh even harder, though the tears continued to flow. It was a strange mix of deep grief and overwhelming relief filling the room all at once. For over twelve years, I had carried a subconscious guilt whenever I derived pleasure from my independent life. Selling the family house and traveling across continents had felt almost like betraying Theodore’s memory. Yet here was his unmistakable handwriting, explicitly granting me permission to embrace the world.
We sat together talking until our mugs grew completely cold. Bartholomew shared hilarious old stories about my husband, including the time Theodore fell fast asleep during a noisy jazz performance and an occasion where he dropped a raw fish directly into a campfire.
“That sounds precisely like him,” I said with a genuine smile.
“Your husband spoke about you constantly toward the end of his life,” Bartholomew added quietly.
A sudden realization struck me, and I asked, “Wait a second, did you know who I was the moment we met at the bookshop?”
“Not at first,” Bartholomew admitted honestly. “Your married surname is relatively common, and I had never seen a recent photograph of you. It was only on our second outing, when you mentioned your hometown and Theodore’s name, that the pieces came together.”
“Why did you not tell me the truth right then?” I inquired.
“Imagine you are traveling alone in a foreign country and a complete stranger approaches you to say he has been storing secret letters from your deceased husband for over a decade,” Bartholomew pointed out.
“That certainly would have been an alarming introduction,” I conceded with a smile.
“I decided a casual coffee invitation was a far safer approach,” he replied warmly. “And I genuinely wanted to meet the incredible woman my best friend loved with all his heart.”
The mood in the room shifted into something remarkably warm and tender. Bartholomew extended his hand across the table, turning his palm upward. I hesitated for only a fraction of a second before placing my hand gently into his.
I decided to extend my stay in Australia by an additional three weeks. Bartholomew showed me breathtaking coastal locations that standard tourists rarely discovered, and we spent quiet evenings listening to classic jazz records. We even took a day trip to the mountain lake where he and Theodore had stayed decades ago. Though the original cabin had long since been demolished, the clear water remained just as serene.
“I assumed coming to this lake would make me deeply sad,” I confessed as we stood near the shore.
“Does it?” Bartholomew asked gently.
“A little bit,” I admitted, looking over at him. “But it brings a great deal of joy as well.”
When my extended stay in Australia came to an end, I did not abandon the remainder of my global tour. Bartholomew actually accompanied me through two additional countries in Europe before I continued my journey independently.
As the months passed, my children slowly began to reach out again. Brenda was the first to send a long apology message, followed by Jocelyn, who admitted that my departure had forced her to realize how overly dependent her family had become on my routine assistance. Mitchell took a bit longer to adjust, but Douglas eventually called with a softer tone.
“I suppose I just assumed that as long as the old house stood, you would always be waiting inside it for us,” Douglas confessed during our call.
“I am still your mother, Douglas,” I explained gently. “I am simply not a piece of permanent living room furniture.”
He broke into a soft laugh, admitting that I was entirely right.
Six months after my initial departure, I boarded an airplane and flew straight back to Australia. I did not return out of grief, but simply because I genuinely wanted to build a new chapter there. Bartholomew met me in the arrival terminal holding a handwritten cardboard sign that read: “BERNICE – COFFEE STILL OWED!”
Today, we split our time between traveling and staying in a comfortable apartment in Melbourne. Theodore’s original cottage painting hangs proudly above our living room mantle, and right beside it is a small picture frame holding a faded paper receipt from the very first café Bartholomew took me to upon my return.
The receipt total reads exactly twelve dollars.
For the longest time, I believed that selling my house meant closing the door on my meaningful life. In truth, I was finally stepping into the very experiences I had spent a lifetime postponing. My promised “someday” was no longer a distant dream floating on the horizon, because I was already living right in the middle of it.
THE END.
