I returned to Daniel's apartment that afternoon.
The building looked exactly as it had the day before.
The same narrow entrance.
The same worn carpet.
The same quiet hallway.
I let myself in with the key he had given me.
The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and the cleaning soap he had always used.
Everything was still in its place.
The two chairs stood beside the small table.
His coat hung near the door.
The photograph of the children remained on the bookshelf.
I stood in front of it for a moment.
The cracked corner of the frame caught the light.
I remembered the day that picture had been taken.
The children had been running along the beach.
Daniel had been holding their shoes.
I had been laughing because he kept getting sand inside his pockets.
It had been an ordinary day.
I hadn't known then that he would keep that photograph in a small apartment across town.
I hadn't known he would look at it alone.
I hadn't known he would leave it where he could see it every morning.
I went to the drawer beneath the bookshelf.
The notebook was still there.
It was smaller than I expected.
Its cover was dark and worn at the edges.
I lifted it carefully.
For a moment, I considered taking it straight to the hospital.
But then I noticed a folded piece of paper tucked beneath it.
My hands stopped.
The paper had my handwriting on it.
I recognized it immediately.
It was an old shopping list.
Milk.
Bread.
Apples.
Laundry detergent.
And at the bottom, in my handwriting, were the words:
Don't forget to pick up the children.
I sat down.
I couldn't remember when Daniel had taken that paper.
It must have been from the kitchen, years earlier.
It was such a small thing.
Something I would have thrown away without thinking.
But he had kept it.
I turned the paper over.
There was nothing written on the back.
I placed it beside the notebook.
Then I opened the cover.
The first page had a date.
It was several weeks before the night he told me he had been seeing someone.
Under the date, he had written:
I need to tell her.
I read that sentence again.
Then I turned the page.
The next entry was only a few lines.
I went to the appointment alone today.
I wanted her beside me.
I was afraid she would ask questions I couldn't answer.
I told myself I would explain everything when I knew more.
I closed my eyes.
The handwriting was familiar.
Daniel had always written carefully.
Even his grocery lists had looked organized.
But these lines were uneven.
Some words leaned downward.
Some letters were pressed so hard into the paper that they left marks on the page beneath.
I turned another page.
There were dates.
Appointments.
Questions for doctors.
Notes about symptoms.
Some entries were only one sentence.
Others filled half a page.
I didn't understand every medical term.
I didn't need to.
I could see how frightened he had been.
One entry read:
I forgot what I was saying in the middle of a conversation today.
I laughed it off.
She looked worried.
I told her I was tired.
Another said:
I weighed myself this morning.
I have lost more weight.
I need to stop pretending this is nothing.
I stopped reading.
My throat had tightened.
I remembered those days.
I remembered asking him why he wasn't eating.
I remembered him saying he had a headache.
I remembered him turning down dinner and telling me to save his portion.
I had believed him.
Not because I didn't care.
Because I trusted him.
I opened the notebook again.
Several pages later, I found a date close to the night he confessed.
The entry was longer.
I read it slowly.
I have looked at the children tonight.
They were doing homework at the table.
She was helping them.
I wanted to tell her everything.
I wanted to sit down and say I was scared.
I wanted her to hold my hand.
But I couldn't bring myself to do it.
I don't want the children to remember their mother crying every time the phone rings.
I don't want her to spend every day watching me.
I don't want to become the reason she stops living.
I put the notebook down.
I had to stand.
I walked into the kitchen and placed both hands on the counter.
The apartment was silent.
I could hear a car passing outside.
I thought about the night he had stood in our kitchen.
I thought about the glass of water beside his hand.
I thought about the way he had looked at me when he said there was another woman.
He had made me feel replaceable.
He had made me feel unwanted.
And now I was reading that he had wanted to sit beside me and hold my hand.
I returned to the table.
There were more entries.
One from the day he signed the divorce papers said:
She signed today.
She didn't ask me to stay.
I don't blame her.
I made sure she had the house and the savings.
The children will have their rooms.
They will have their school.
They will have their mother close by.
I will live somewhere small.
I hope she never finds out how much I wanted her to ask me to come home.
I read the last sentence twice.
Then I shut the notebook.
I couldn't keep reading.
Not because I didn't want to know.
Because I was beginning to understand how much of our marriage had been decided by one person alone.
Daniel had made choices for me.
He had chosen what I could know.
He had chosen what I could lose.
He had chosen what kind of man I would believe he was.
Even his sacrifice had been something he arranged without asking me.
I placed the notebook inside my bag.
Before leaving, I looked once more at the photograph.
The children were smiling.
Daniel was standing behind them.
He looked happy.
I wondered whether he had known, even then, how much he would miss them.
At the hospital, he was awake when I arrived.
He saw the notebook in my hand.
“You found it.”
“I did.”
He looked nervous.
“Did you read it?”
“Some.”
He looked away.
“I wasn't ready for you to see those pages.”
“I know.”
I placed it on the table beside his bed.
“I also found something else.”
“What?”
I showed him the old shopping list.
He stared at it.
For a moment, his face changed.
“You kept that?”
“You kept it.”
He gave a small, tired laugh.
“I don't remember taking it.”
“I don't remember writing it.”
He touched the paper.
“I used to keep little things.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid I would forget.”
I sat down.
“Daniel, you wrote that you wanted me to ask you to come home.”
He didn't answer.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I thought you were better without me.”
“You don't know that.”
“No.”
“You didn't even ask.”
He looked at the notebook.
“I know.”
I pushed it gently toward him.
“I'm not finished reading it.”
“You don't have to read it.”
“I want to understand what happened.”
He nodded.
“Then read it.”
I looked at him.
“But don't expect me to pretend those five years didn't happen.”
“I won't.”
For once, he didn't ask me to understand.
He didn't ask me to forgive him.
He simply rested his hand on the notebook.
And I was grateful for that small change.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: WHAT THE CHILDREN DESERVED TO KNOW
The Wednesday Night Daniel Told Me There Was Someone Else, and I Realized Our Marriage Was Already Over
Part 10 of 20
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