He didn’t answer.
I slept in the guest room that night. I asked him to explain himself again the next morning, but he refused.
“I can’t live with that kind of lie,” I said. “I can’t wake up every day and pretend I don’t see what’s going on.”
Troy nodded once. “I figured you’d say that.”
So I called a lawyer.
“I can’t live with that kind of lie.”
I didn’t want to. God, I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t wake up every day wondering where my husband was going when I left home.
I couldn’t look at our bank account and see how money ran out in places I wasn’t allowed to ask.
***
Two weeks later, we sat in front of each other in a lawyer’s office.
Troy didn’t look at me, barely spoke and didn’t even try to fight for our marriage. He simply nodded at the appropriate times and signed where he was told to sign.
We sat in front of each other in a lawyer’s office.
That was it.
A lifetime of friendship and 36 years of marriage, everything went with a piece of paper.
It was one of the most confusing moments of my life.
I had lied to myself, and I had left. That part was clear, but everything else felt murky. Unfinished. Because here’s the thing: no woman came out of nowhere after we separated. No big secret came to light.
I saw it sometimes in children’s homes, at birthday parties and in the supermarket.
I had lied to myself, and I had left.
We greeted each other and talked a little. He never confessed what he had been hiding from me, but I never stopped wondering. So, although we separated cleanerly than most couples, a large part of me felt that chapter of my life was still unfinished.
Two years later, he died suddenly.
Our daughter called me from the hospital, with a broken voice.
Our son drove three hours and arrived too late.
He never confessed what he had been hiding from me.
I went to the funeral, though I wasn’t sure if I should.
The church was full. People I hadn’t seen in years approached me with sad smiles and said things like, “He was a good man,” and “We’re so sorry for your loss.”
I nodded, thanked them and felt like an imposter.
Then Troy’s father, 81, approached me, stinking on whiskey.
His eyes were red, his voice snoring.
He came over and I could smell the liquor in his breath.
Troy’s father, 81, approached me.
“You don’t even know what he did for you, do you?”
I backed out. “Frank, this is not the time.”
He shook his head hard, almost losing his balance. “Do you think I don’t know about the money? The hotel room? The same, every time?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “God help him, he thought he was being careful.”
Frank staggered slightly, his heavy hand on my arm as if he needed me to keep me standing.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“You don’t even know what he did for you.”
