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When James died, the world turned gray. We’d been married for 22 years, and even through the arguments and quiet dinners, I knew he loved me. Or at least, I thought I did. It took me two weeks to finally gather the courage to clean out his closet. Every piece of clothing still smelled like him—cedar and wind and something faintly minty from his aftershave.
I was folding one of his dark blue suits when something crinkled in the inside pocket. At first, I thought it was another grocery list or a dry cleaning stub. But it wasn’t. It was a letter—creases sharp, handwriting I didn’t recognize. The envelope was unsealed and read only: “To Lily.”
I stared at that name for a full minute. My name is Mary.
With shaking hands, I opened it. The words were deliberate, emotional—apologies tangled with longing. “I’ll always wonder what would’ve happened if I’d chosen you,” it said. “But I can’t break her heart again.” Her. Me.
I folded the letter back, sat on the carpeted bedroom floor, and felt like I had fallen through the life I thought we built. Who was Lily? A past lover? A recent one? Had he written this before we married or just last month?
My chest felt hollow. I remembered the nights he’d come home late from ‘work’—the sudden canceled trips, the mysterious phone calls he always took in the hallway.
I shouldn’t have kept reading—but I did. The second page mentioned a location. “If you ever do decide to find me, I’ll be where it all began. November 6th.” That date was next week.
I’m not sure why, but I marked the date on my calendar.
Now I’m sitting in my car outside a small bookstore on Main where the note said she’d be. I haven’t gone in yet.
Part of me is desperate for answers.
The other part wonders if some truths should stay buried.
