Jiya #2
She reached into her handbag and carefully removed a cream-coloured envelope.
Written across the front in familiar handwriting were three simple words.
For My Wife.
“Cole gave it to me months ago,” Marjorie said quietly. “He told me to give it to you personally.”
My fingers trembled as I accepted it.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Marjorie squeezed my arm gently.
I looked down at the envelope again.
Every instinct inside me wanted to open it immediately, but this felt too personal.
Whatever Cole had written inside, it had been meant only for me.
Carefully, I slipped the envelope into my purse before looking back at the display one last time.
Even now, after everything, he had somehow found another way to reach me.
“This entire display isn't for sale,” she said, glancing toward the photographs and paintings surrounding us. “Cole had been working on it for a long time. He wanted it to belong to you.”
This was the surprise!
All those hours. All those secretive smiles whenever I asked what he was working on. All those times he had promised I would see it when it was finished.
He had been in pain and struggling. Yet he had pushed himself to complete this gift for me, pouring his love into every brushstroke.
“Thank you for everything and for helping him,” I said, my voice trembling. “I know Andrea and you are worried about what is going to happen to your jobs once the gallery is closed, but—”
“No, we are not,” Marjorie interrupted.
My head jerked back. “What do you mean?”
“We are going to be working in Liam’s company once we’re done here,” she explained. “Liam already knows about it.”
Cole had indeed planned everything. He had taken care of everyone, even in his absence.
Bless you, Cole. Emotion swelled inside my chest again, and a quiet prayer formed in my heart. I miss you. I miss you so much!
“Most of his pictures are sold,” Marjorie said, smiling widely. “I took a walk earlier and saw many red dots on the pictures in the bottom right corner.”
“Red dots?” I asked, trying to comprehend what she meant.
“Yes. We gave all the guests a strip of personalized red-dot stickers. If they wanted to purchase a picture, they would place a sticker on the bottom right corner, signalling to the other guests that the artwork had already been purchased.”
“That’s a fantastic idea.”
“Cole came up with it,” Marjorie remarked.
My chest expanded as I inhaled slowly, filling my lungs as though I needed the air to steady myself. I was proud of Cole—of his talent, of his generosity, of the way he had poured himself into everything he created. He had worked so hard, pushing through pain and exhaustion.
He might not be standing beside me physically, his hand resting at the small of my back the way it used to, but I felt his presence everywhere.
It lingered in the laughter of the guests, in the admiration in their eyes as they studied his work, in the quiet buzz of the room that carried his spirit through every corner of the gallery.
You did it, Cole. You made this happen.
And somehow, I believed he was still watching over us—over the children and me—with the same devotion he had shown when he was alive.
Andrea approached me and handed me a strip of plain red dot stickers. The small sheet felt surprisingly heavy in my hand, as though it carried the weight of memories into each circle.
Taking another slow walk around the gallery by myself, while the children remained safely tucked in the loving arms of Jack and Maureen, I studied the photographs once more. Each image felt like a window into Cole’s soul, revealing pieces of the man I had loved so fiercely.
Then my steps slowed.
My heart recognized the picture.
It was the photograph he had taken of the scenic backdrop of the resort where he had proposed to me—the place where my life had changed forever, where he had dropped to one knee and looked up at me with hope shining in his eyes.
I could still hear his voice.
Still see the nervous smile tugging at his lips.
Still feel the tremor in his hands when he held mine.
Carefully, I peeled one red dot from the strip and pressed it onto the bottom right corner of the photograph.
Mine.
That memory belonged to me… and only me.
Before the night ended, I stood in front of the guests, my heart pounding, trying to find the courage to speak. Faces turned toward me, their expressions gentle and expectant, and I felt the sting of tears gathering behind my eyes.
“First of all, I would like to thank you for attending this special event tonight,” I began, my voice trembling slightly.
I lowered my gaze briefly, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over, then lifted my head again to face the crowd.
“Cole Harris was not only my husband but also my best friend and a father to my children. He was a good man and a fantastic artist. I hope you all enjoy the photos and paintings that you have bought. I want you to know that each of you holds a piece of Cole.” I paused, letting the words settle into the room, feeling the weight of them sink into my own chest. “Please remember him and cherish the memories you've shared with him every time you look at his work. Thank you.”
A wave of applause followed, gentle and respectful from the people who had come to honour him.
After bidding everyone goodnight, I drove back to the house with the children and Geeta.
The streets were calm, the night air cool, and exhaustion finally began to seep into my bones.
The event Cole had planned had been a success—just as he had hoped, just as he had believed it would be.
Later that night, after I tucked the children into bed and kissed their foreheads, the house fell into silence.
I had been strong all evening—smiling, speaking, comforting others, holding myself together for the sake of my children.
They had lost the only father they had ever known.
I refused to let them see me crumble under the weight of my grief.
I carried that burden quietly, shielding them from the sorrow inside me.
But now, alone in my bedroom, the mask slipped.
Reaching into the closet, I pulled out one of Cole’s old sweaters and slipped it over my shoulders. The fabric hung loosely on my frame.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I sank onto the edge of the bed, clutching the picture I had just bought at the gallery. My fingers traced the edges of the frame.
God, I missed him.
The ache inside my chest felt endless.
Slowly, with trembling hands, I reached beneath the pillow and pulled out Cole’s letter—the letter I had read countless times, the one that had become both my solace and my torment.
I held Cole's old letter against my chest as I reached into my purse and pulled out the envelope Marjorie had given me at the gallery.
Carefully, I opened it and began to read.
Sweetheart,
You never knew I took this photograph.
You fell asleep in my arms that night, and for the first time I saw you completely at peace.
I should have been sleeping too, but I couldn't stop looking at you.
I remember sitting there thinking that if I never took another photograph for the rest of my life, I would still have captured something beautiful.
When I woke up and found you gone, I thought I had imagined the entire night.
It took me a long time to understand why that morning stayed with me.
It wasn't because you left.
It was because that was the night I started falling in love with you.
Love, Cole
A broken sob escaped me.
I pressed the note against my chest and closed my eyes.