We sat across from each other in a lawyer's office.
That was it.
A lifetime of friendship and 36 years of marriage, all gone with a piece of paper.
It was one of the most confusing times of my life.
He'd lied to me, and I'd left. That part was clear, but everything else felt murky. Unfinished. Because here's the thing: no woman came out of the woodwork after we split. No big secret came to light.
I'd see him sometimes at the kids' houses, birthday parties, and the grocery store.
He'd lied to me, and I'd left.
We'd nod and make small talk. He never confessed what he'd been keeping from me, but I never stopped wondering. So even though we'd split more cleanly than most couples did, a large part of me felt like that chapter of my life remained unfinished.
Two years later, he died suddenly.
Our daughter called me from the hospital, her voice breaking.
Our son drove three hours and got there too late.
He never confessed what he'd been keeping from me.
I went to the funeral even though I wasn't sure if I should.
The church was packed. People I hadn't seen in years came up to 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 a fraud.
Then, Troy's 81-year-old father stumbled up to me, reeking of whiskey.
His eyes were red, his voice thick.
He leaned in close, and I could smell the liquor on his breath.
Troy's 81-year-old father stumbled up to me.
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