I didn't read the notebook all at once.
I tried.
But every few pages brought back something I had forgotten or misunderstood.
So I read a little, stopped, and returned to it later.
The next morning, I brought it to the hospital.
Daniel was resting when I arrived.
I placed the notebook on the table.
He opened his eyes.
“You brought it.”
“I said I would.”
He looked at the cover.
“Are you still reading?”
“Yes.”
“Anything you want to ask?”
I pulled the chair closer.
“Why did you keep writing?”
He considered the question.
“At first, I wrote down symptoms and questions for the appointments.”
“And later?”
“Later, I wrote things I couldn't say out loud.”
I opened the notebook to a page marked with a folded corner.
The date was from shortly after the divorce.
I read the first lines.
The apartment is quiet.
I thought quiet would make things easier.
It doesn't.
I keep reaching for a second cup when I make coffee.
I still buy the kind of cereal the children like.
I put it away when I remember they're not coming over.
I stopped reading.
Daniel looked at the wall.
“I didn't know what to do with myself.”
“You could have called.”
“I could have.”
“You could have asked to see them.”
“I did see them.”
“You could have stayed longer.”
He nodded.
“I should have.”
I turned the page.
Another entry was dated on one of the children's birthdays.
I bought the present early.
I wrapped it twice because the first paper tore.
I wanted to stay after the cake.
I wanted to help clean the kitchen.
But I saw her looking at me.
I thought she wanted me gone.
I looked up.
“I didn't want you gone.”
“I know that now.”
“I thought you were leaving because you had somewhere else to be.”
“I never did.”
I shook my head.
“You should have asked.”
“I know.”
The next entry was shorter.
I saw the children today.
They are growing.
I am proud of them.
I wanted to tell them I am sorry.
I wanted to tell their mother too.
I don't know how to start.
I closed the notebook.
“You wrote that you wanted to apologize.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you?”
“Because I thought an apology would make you ask questions.”
“And you didn't want to answer them.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
“You wanted to control what I knew.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
It was the first time he had said it that plainly.
I appreciated the honesty.
I didn't appreciate what it meant.
I opened the notebook again.
There were pages about his appointments.
Dates.
Notes.
Questions he had written for the doctors.
Some pages had small marks beside certain lines.
Others were filled with crossed-out sentences.
I found one entry from the first year after the divorce.
Today I passed the old house.
The light was on in the kitchen.
I wondered if she was making dinner.
I wondered if the children were doing homework at the table.
I kept driving.
I didn't want them to see me looking through the window.
I put my hand over my mouth.
I remembered that evening.
I had been making dinner.
The children had been arguing over homework.
The dishwasher had been humming.
I had stood at the same kitchen table where Daniel once told me he was seeing someone else.
I had believed he was somewhere with another woman.
He had been driving past our house.
I didn't know what to do with that knowledge.
It didn't make me feel better.
It made me feel as if I had been living beside a story I hadn't been allowed to read.
I turned another page.
The entry was dated near the second anniversary of the divorce.
I am doing what the doctors tell me.
Some days are easier.
Some days are not.
I keep thinking I should call her.
I want to tell her that I never stopped loving her.
But I don't want her to think I am asking her to come back because I am sick.
I don't want her to feel trapped.
I don't want her to feel sorry for me.
I closed the notebook again.
Daniel was watching me.
“You wrote that you never stopped loving me.”
He looked down.
“Yes.”
“Did you expect me to read that?”
“No.”
“Then why write it?”
“Because I needed somewhere to put it.”
I stared at him.
“You could have put it in a letter.”
“I started one.”
“Where is it?”
He hesitated.
“There's a letter in the apartment.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Another letter?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I wasn't sure I wanted you to see it.”
I leaned back.
“Daniel, I can't keep finding pieces of the truth in drawers.”
“I know.”
“If there's something else, tell me now.”
He looked toward the window.
“There are other pages.”
“About what?”
“About the decisions I made. About the appointments. About how I felt when I first moved out.”
“Anything else?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing about another person. There was never another person.”
I believed him.
But I was beginning to understand that the absence of another woman did not mean there had been no betrayal.
He had betrayed my trust in a different way.
He had taken the truth out of my hands.
I reached for the notebook.
“I want to finish reading it.”
“You can.”
“Not because I think it will fix anything.”
“I understand.”
“Because I need to know what happened.”
He nodded.
I turned to the final pages.
The handwriting became less even.
Some entries were only a few words.
Some dates had been written and then crossed out.
One page said:
I saw her at the school event today.
She looked tired.
I wanted to ask if she was all right.
I didn't.
I thought I had lost the right to ask.
Another said:
The children hugged me today.
I wanted to hold on longer.
I let go first.
I don't know why I keep doing that.
I turned the page.
There was a date from several months earlier.
I am running out of ways to pretend I am fine.
I need to tell them.
I need to tell her.
I don't know how to face what I have done.
I stopped there.
The next page was blank.
Then, near the back, I found a final entry.
It had been written only a few days before he called me.
I cannot keep carrying this alone.
I have spent five years believing silence was kindness.
It wasn't.
I hurt the people I wanted to protect.
I don't know how much time I have left.
But I know I don't want to leave without telling the truth.
I closed the notebook.
For a long time, I couldn't speak.
Daniel watched me.
“That's why I called,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Because you finally decided to tell the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Because you were afraid you wouldn't get another chance?”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
I put the notebook down.
“I wish you had called five years ago.”
“So do I.”
“I wish you had trusted me.”
“So do I.”
“I wish I hadn't spent all that time believing you loved someone else.”
His eyes filled.
“I never did.”
I looked at him.
“I know.”
The words surprised me.
I had spent five years waiting for an explanation.
Now I had one.
It didn't erase the anger.
It didn't return the years.
But I knew the truth.
And I needed that.
Daniel reached toward the notebook.
“There's one more thing I want you to understand.”
I waited.
“When I left, I didn't think I was choosing a better life for myself.”
He looked at the photograph beside his bed.
“I thought I was choosing a smaller one.”
I said nothing.
“I thought if I kept my apartment, kept my appointments, and stayed out of your way, I could make things easier for you.”
“You made things harder.”
“I know.”
“You made me grieve a marriage that hadn't ended the way you told me it had.”
“I know.”
“And you made the children grow up with questions.”
He lowered his head.
“I know.”
I took a slow breath.
“I can't promise you forgiveness.”
“I am not asking for it.”
“I can't promise we will go back to being a family.”
“I understand.”
“But I can promise I won't let the children believe you stopped loving them.”
His face softened.
“Thank you.”
“And I can promise that from now on, we tell the truth.”
He nodded.
“From now on.”
I stood and moved the water glass closer to him.
The blue-bordered card was still beside it.
The children's handwriting was beginning to curl at the edges.
Daniel looked at the card.
Then at me.
“I would like to see them again tomorrow.”
“I'll ask them.”
“Thank you.”
I picked up the notebook.
At the door, I turned back.
“Daniel?”
“Yes?”
“You should have let me choose.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“I know.”
I left the room with the notebook in my hand.
For five years, I had believed another woman had taken my husband away.
Now I understood that fear had taken him.
But fear had not signed the divorce papers.
Fear had not spoken the lie.
Daniel had.
And the truth, even now, would have to be something we faced together.
Click here to continue reading: PART 13: THE LETTER HE NEVER SENT
The Wednesday Night Daniel Told Me There Was Someone Else, and I Realized Our Marriage Was Already Over
Part 12 of 20
