Read Letting You Go: A Short Story for Free Online

finally found peace. But peace, often times, is short lived. There's always some war you have to run off to.
                  I can't really say how I felt holding that letter, whether it was anxiety or resolution. It had to be a prank. Yet, a part of me wondered if it might be a late arrival, something Ken had written while still alive. He liked to do quirky things like that. Write me notes or letters and mail them back to our house. I have a box dedicated to I love you or Have a good day, hun or I'm the luckiest man alive or I'm sorry, baby .
                  I wondered at his state of mind before he died. I regret most that I couldn't be there with him in those last moments. Just to hear him say I love you . At least then, I wouldn't have to waste so many hours questioning if he did, or so many hateful nights blaming him after that fire. Did he really love me? If he could go back, would he choose me over saving someone else? I wanted an answer. I wanted some proof that I was still important to him, even after he ran into that building. So I opened the letter.
                  It was short. Hardly even a sentence.
                  Meet me here.
                  An address was written just beneath that to Madam Wong's Boutique , the worthless ma-and-pop shop Ken had risked his life for. I wasn't aware that the owners had moved the store and reopened it until I saw that letter. I was a little resentful, to say the least. They could move on. They could resume their lives normally without the consequences. They hadn't lost anything. Well, granted, they lost their building, but it doesn't count so much as a loss when the insurance built them a nice, new, state of the art, nearly fireproof establishment. Where's my payout? Who's going to buy me a new and improved fireproof husband?
                  However, as infuriated as I was, I was equally curious. I wanted to see for myself how they were getting along. I wanted to shake the manager's hand and introduce myself as, “Mrs. Megan Allen.” No doubt he would raise an eyebrow and the connection wouldn't sink in. I'd just smile and say, “Don't worry. Not a lot of people knew me by that name yet. Up until 6 months ago, my last name was Lara.  Then I got married, and got joint accounts, and mortgaged a house, and picked out all my kids' names, which was no simple cause since Allen sounds good after every first name. Three months after that, my doorbell rang, and I went from having the perfect life to living as the childless widow of Kenneth Allen, the fireman who died because your shit hole building wasn't up to code.”
                  So I called Kate up and told her I wanted to go shopping. She had plans with her boyfriend, but said she'd put them on hold, seizing the opportunity to finally get me out of the house. We took the subway to the city, and she talked the whole way there. Of course, I got the oversweetness one usually gets after a enduring a tragedy. She did everything for me. Treated me to my favorite frappicino, opened doors, cussed people out who cut me off in the terminal. She was just looking out for me. In a way, I felt bad about what I still planned to do when I got back home. She'd be so heartbroken when she found out, but nothing could change my mind about it.
                  “How are you, by the way?” Kate asked suddenly. “You've been quiet lately at work. I mean, we work in the same studio, but I never see you anymore.”
                  “Actually, I got this new project going on. It eats up all my time,” I said. “Just trying to stay busy.” I can be a good liar when I want to be.
                  “I was going through some old negatives the other day. You're gonna love me for this.” She handed me a print of Ken posing shirtless in front of a flag. He titled his fake fire helmet like a cowboy and gave the camera what he