The guilt never left. Some years it was worse than others. I thought about telling her the truth plenty of times but I always backed out. I was scared she would look at me different.

Then last week I saw the post from the antique dealer. The picture showed the exact same set. I called right away and they still had it. So the next morning I got in the car and drove.

The shop was small and the man behind the counter was nice.

“This is a good find,” he said. “Not many complete sets left like this.”

I paid the money and he wrapped everything careful. I put the box in my car and headed home.

That night I bought tissue paper and sat at my kitchen table to write the note. I kept crossing out words and starting over. Finally I just wrote what happened and signed my name.

Now I am here in the driveway. The box is ready. I turn the key off and the car goes quiet. I get out and lift the box from the back seat. It is heavier than I expected.

I walk up the driveway to the porch. The light is bright. I knock on the door.

Linda opens it after a minute. She is in her robe and looks surprised.

“Pat, what are you doing here so late?” she asks.

“I brought you something,” I say. I hold out the box.

We go inside to the kitchen table. She sets the box down and opens the top. She pulls back the tissue paper and sees the note right on top.

She reads it slow. Then she looks up at me.

“You threw it away?” she says. “All this time?”

I nod. My voice will not work.

She touches one of the new plates.

“It looks just like the old one,” she says.

We sit down. She makes tea. The china sits between us on the table.

We do not talk much. I do not know if she can forgive me after forty years of the lie. At least she knows the truth now.

The steam from the tea rises between us like little ghosts. I wrap my hands around the warm mug and feel the heat seep into my fingers. The kitchen smells like the lemon dish soap she uses and the faint scent of her perfume.

Linda unfolds the note again even though she already read it. She smooths it flat on the table with her palm.

“You really drove all that way for these,” she says. Her voice is soft but steady.

I nod. “Two hours there and back. The man at the shop said it was a lucky find.”

She traces the ivy on one plate with her finger. The gold rim feels cool I bet but she doesn’t say.

“I thought about those plates every time I set a holiday table,” she says. “It never felt right without them.”