I went home that evening with Daniel's words repeating in my head.
He had never cheated.
He had been sick.
He had left because he believed he was protecting us.
I didn't know how to fit those things together.
The children were in the living room when I walked in.
One was doing homework.
The other was watching television.
They looked up.
"Where were you?"
I put my bag down.
"I went to see your father."
Their faces changed immediately.
"Is he okay?"
I took a breath.
"He's in the hospital."
Our youngest stood up.
"What's wrong with him?"
"He's been unwell."
"Is it serious?"
I looked at both of them.
I didn't want to frighten them.
But I didn't want to hide the truth the way Daniel had hidden it from me.
"The doctors are looking after him. I think we should visit him tomorrow."
They exchanged a look.
"Can we both go?"
"Yes."
Our oldest asked whether their father had requested to see them.
I nodded.
"He would like that."
They started asking questions.
How long had he been there?
Was he getting treatment?
Was he coming home?
I answered what I could.
When I didn't know, I said I didn't know.
That night, I barely slept.
I kept remembering the way Daniel had looked at me when he said he had never cheated.
I also remembered the years when he had stood at the edge of family photographs.
The years when he had left early.
The years when I had believed he was happier somewhere else.
The next morning, I drove the children to the hospital.
They carried a small bag with a card and some snacks.
Our youngest had chosen the card.
It had a blue border and a picture of a tree.
The message inside was simple.
"Get better soon, Dad."
When we entered Daniel's room, he looked toward the door.
His face changed.
He tried to sit up.
The children went to him immediately.
"Hi, Dad."
He smiled.
"Look at you two."
Our oldest hugged him carefully.
Our youngest placed the card on the bedside table.
"We brought you something."
Daniel looked at it.
He opened it slowly.
His fingers trembled.
"Thank you."
He read the message twice.
Then he looked at them.
"I love you both."
They told him about school.
They told him about a project.
They complained about a teacher who gave too much homework.
Daniel listened.
He asked questions.
He laughed at one story.
For a few minutes, the room felt almost normal.
Then our youngest asked when he was coming home.
Daniel looked at me.
I answered carefully.
"The doctors are still taking care of him. We don't know the exact plan yet."
Our child nodded.
Daniel reached for the card again.
He placed it beside the water glass.
I noticed how carefully he positioned it.
As if it were something valuable.
The children stayed for a while.
They talked about visiting him again.
Daniel said he would like that.
When it was time to leave, our oldest hugged him.
Our youngest held his hand.
Then they walked out with me.
I remained in the corridor for a moment.
I wanted to ask Daniel more questions.
But I also wanted him to have time with the children without every conversation becoming about the divorce.
A nurse approached and told me the doctor would be available later if I wanted to discuss his condition.
I thanked her.
Then I took the children home.
That afternoon, I returned to the hospital alone.
Daniel was awake.
He looked toward the chair.
"Did they get home safely?"
"Yes."
He nodded.
"They've grown so much."
I sat down.
"They miss you."
He looked at the card.
"I miss them."
I watched him for a moment.
Then I asked whether I could visit his apartment.
He frowned slightly.
"Why?"
"I want to understand what your life has been like."
He looked uncomfortable.
"You don't need to."
"I know I don't need to. I want to."
He was quiet.
Then he told me the apartment key was in his wallet.
He asked whether I could bring it back.
I agreed.
He gave me the address.
It was the same one listed in the divorce papers.
I had driven past that neighborhood many times.
I had never once imagined what was inside his apartment.
That evening, after leaving the hospital, I went there.
The building was small.
The hallway smelled faintly of cleaning products.
I found his door and used the key.
The apartment was quiet.
There was a small kitchen.
A narrow living room.
A table with two chairs.
A bookshelf against the wall.
The place was clean, but almost empty.
There were no signs of another person.
No second toothbrush.
No extra shoes by the door.
No photographs of a new life.
Only Daniel's things.
His work papers.
A few books.
A coat hanging behind the door.
And the photograph of the children from the beach.
It stood on the bookshelf.
I picked it up.
The frame was old.
One corner had a small crack.
I turned it over.
There was a date written on the back.
The day we had taken the picture.
I placed it back carefully.
Then I noticed a drawer beneath the bookshelf.
Inside were envelopes.
Some were unopened.
Some had been folded and put away.
There was a copy of the divorce agreement.
A few hospital appointment cards.
And a small notebook.
I didn't open it.
It felt too personal.
I sat on the edge of his sofa.
For five years, I had imagined another woman in this room.
I had imagined Daniel laughing with her.
I had imagined him cooking dinner for someone else.
I had imagined him building the happiness he had refused to share with us.
But there was no evidence of any of that.
There was only a small apartment.
A photograph.
A stack of medical papers.
And a man who had apparently spent years living alone.
I looked at the photograph again.
Then I understood something that made my chest ache.
Daniel had not replaced our family.
He had kept us in the only place he seemed willing to keep us.
At a distance.
I locked the apartment and returned to the hospital.
When I walked into his room, he was asleep.
I placed the key on the bedside table.
He opened his eyes a few minutes later.
"Did you find everything?"
"Yes."
I sat down.
"I saw the photograph."
He looked at me.
"Of the beach?"
I nodded.
"You kept it."
He gave a small smile.
"Of course."
I looked at the card the children had brought.
It stood beside the water glass.
For a while, I said nothing.
Then I asked him about the notebook.
His expression changed.
"What notebook?"
"The one in the drawer beneath your bookshelf."
He looked away.
I realized I had touched something he wasn't ready to discuss.
"Sorry," I said. "I didn't read it."
He nodded.
"Thank you."
I waited.
He looked toward the window.
"Maybe one day I'll show you."
I didn't ask again.
But I knew the notebook mattered.
And I knew that whatever Daniel had been hiding, it was bigger than the lie about another woman.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: THE THINGS HE NEVER SAID
The Wednesday Night Daniel Told Me There Was Someone Else, and I Realized Our Marriage Was Already Over
Part 8 of 20
