I said out loud to the empty room, “Neither will I.”
Writing my own truth to keep forever
I sat down on the floor, grabbed an empty notebook from my nightstand drawer, and opened it to the first blank page.
If Susan could write lies and tuck them into my husband’s hands, I could write the truth and keep it with me forever.
So I started writing. About Greg and our life together. About the red rose I’d brought to the funeral. About the note I’d discovered. About the security cameras and Luis helping me find answers. About Peter and his son Ben. About a cruel woman who walked into a funeral home and tried to bury a good man’s reputation twice.
I don’t know yet what I’ll do with this written record.
But I know this with absolute certainty: My marriage wasn’t a lie.
My husband was flawed and human and stubborn and sometimes genuinely annoying. But he was mine, and I was his.
And even after everything that happened, when I turn the pages of those eleven journals he left behind, one thing appears consistently, over and over again, in the margins and in the little spaces between his thoughts.
“I love her.”
He never hid that from me. Not once in thirty-six years.
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