I didn't take the notebook home that evening.
I left it with Daniel.
He had asked to keep it beside his bed, and I thought he should have that choice.
But I couldn't stop thinking about the letter he had mentioned.
The one he had started and never sent.
The next morning, I arrived before the children.
Daniel was awake, sitting slightly higher against his pillows.
The blue-bordered card was still beside his water glass.
“You came early,” he said.
“I couldn't sleep.”
He looked at the notebook.
“Did you finish reading?”
“I read everything you showed me.”
He nodded.
I waited.
He knew what I was going to ask.
“The letter,” I said.
His eyes moved toward the window.
“I haven't looked at it in a long time.”
“Where is it?”
“In the apartment.”
“Do you want me to bring it?”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he nodded.
“If you don't mind.”
“I'll get it.”
I stood, but he called me back.
“There's something I want to say first.”
I turned.
“When I wrote that letter, I thought I was doing the right thing by staying away.”
“You've already told me that.”
“I know. But I want you to understand that I wasn't staying away because I stopped caring.”
I looked at him.
“Daniel, I understand that now.”
He seemed relieved.
“But understanding why you did something doesn't mean I agree with it.”
His expression changed.
“I know.”
“And it doesn't mean it didn't hurt.”
“I know that too.”
I left the hospital and drove across town.
At his apartment, I went straight to the bookshelf.
The drawer opened with the same small scrape.
The divorce agreement was still there.
The hospital appointment cards were stacked beside it.
I moved them carefully.
Behind the notebook, I found a large envelope.
It was plain white.
My name wasn't written on it.
There was no address.
The flap had been folded but never sealed.
I held it for a moment.
Then I sat at the small table.
I wondered how many times Daniel had picked it up.
How many times he had thought about sending it.
How many times he had put it away again.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter written on several sheets of paper.
The first page began with a sentence that made my hands go still.
I don't know how to tell you that I am frightened without making you frightened too.
I read it again.
Then I continued.
I know I have been distant.
I know you've noticed.
I keep telling you I am tired, and I keep hoping that will be enough until I understand what is happening.
I don't want you to think you did anything wrong.
You haven't.
The next paragraph was crossed out.
I could still make out the words beneath the ink.
I am afraid you will look at me differently.
I am afraid the children will remember me as someone who was always sick.
I am afraid that one day you will have to choose between taking care of me and taking care of yourselves.
I stopped reading.
The room was quiet.
I could hear the refrigerator humming in the small kitchen.
I turned the page.
The letter continued.
I know you would tell me that we would face it together.
That's what you would say.
And I know you would mean it.
That is why I am so afraid.
I don't want to watch you give up things you still have time to enjoy.
I don't want the children to grow up thinking their lives have to stop because their father is ill.
I want them to remember ordinary things.
I want them to remember school mornings, birthdays, holidays, and all the things I used to take for granted.
I lowered the page.
I remembered those ordinary things.
The packed lunches.
The arguments about shoes.
The mornings when Daniel couldn't find his keys.
The evenings when we ate dinner too late because everyone had something to finish.
Those things had never seemed important enough to protect.
Until he decided to protect them by leaving.
I read the final page.
I don't know whether I will be able to explain this properly.
I don't know whether I will have the courage to give you this letter.
But I need to write it somewhere.
If I cannot say it aloud, at least I will have tried to tell the truth.
I love you.
I love the children.
I am sorry I am so afraid.
There was no signature.
Just a date.
The date was a few days before the Wednesday night when he had told me about the other woman.
I folded the pages carefully.
For a long time, I sat at the table with the letter in front of me.
I was angry with him.
I was sad for him.
And I was angry with myself for wishing I had known.
I had imagined another woman for five years.
I had pictured Daniel laughing with someone else.
I had wondered whether he had taken her to restaurants we used to visit.
Whether he had bought her flowers.
Whether he had told her the things he stopped telling me.
Instead, he had been sitting at this little table writing a letter he never sent.
I put the pages back in the envelope.
Then I noticed something written lightly on the back of the last sheet.
A single sentence.
I hope she never has to read this.
I closed my eyes.
I wished he had given me the chance to read it when it could still have changed something.
When I returned to the hospital, Daniel was asleep.
I placed the envelope on the table.
The nurse looked up from the chart.
“He's had a quiet morning,” she said.
“Has he been comfortable?”
“He has been resting. The doctor will come by later.”
I thanked her.
Then I sat beside him.
When he woke, he saw the envelope.
“You found it.”
“Yes.”
“Did you read it?”
“I did.”
He looked worried.
“I didn't mean for it to sound like I was blaming you.”
“You weren't.”
“I didn't know how to write it.”
“I know.”
He reached for the envelope but stopped halfway.
I handed it to him.
He looked at the handwriting.
“I wrote that before the divorce.”
“I saw the date.”
“I kept thinking I would give it to you.”
“But you didn't.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He looked at the paper.
“Because every time I read it, I realized I was still asking you to carry something I hadn't explained.”
I shook my head.
“You were already making me carry something. You just gave it a different name.”
He looked at me.
I continued.
“You made me carry the belief that you had betrayed me. You let me spend years thinking I had been replaced.”
“I know.”
“You could have given me this letter instead.”
“I should have.”
I took a breath.
“I don't want you to keep apologizing without listening to what I'm saying.”
He nodded.
“I'm listening.”
“I loved you when you were frightened. I loved you when you were difficult. I loved you when you were tired and when you were sick, even before I knew you were sick.”
His eyes filled.
“You didn't give me a chance to show you that.”
“I know.”
“You decided that loving you would be a burden.”
He looked down at the letter.
“I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
He held the envelope against his chest.
I didn't reach for his hand.
Not yet.
There were still things between us that needed time.
But I stayed beside him while he read the letter again.
And this time, he didn't have to hide it in a drawer.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: THE QUESTIONS WE HAD AVOIDED
The Wednesday Night Daniel Told Me There Was Someone Else, and I Realized Our Marriage Was Already Over
Part 13 of 20
