center that Eleanor left much of his money to.
Sometimes I meet young people there who painfully remind me of the person I was before.
Cold looks.
Pride wound.
Empty pockets.
Rage against the whole world.
Sometimes someone says to me:
“You can’t understand what it means to have nothing.”
I usually smile in silence.
And then I answer:
“I understand it better than you imagine.”
That wooden box is still on my table.
Sometimes I open it and read Eleanor’s letter again.
And every time I do, I think about how late I realized that Eleanor had never been my punishment.
It was my salvation.
I married her because I wanted to take advantage of her.
And in the end he left me something whose value no will could measure.
He left me a chance to become someone else.
So, if someone who is reading this right now is
