My husband died believing I would honor his final wish. Two days after the funeral, I delivered a sealed envelope to a woman I had never heard of, and the look on her face told me my marriage had been hiding something I was never meant to find.
For thirty-four years, I believed I knew everything about my husband.
Zane was my safest place. We had survived money problems, family losses, and the kind of grief that either breaks a marriage or binds it tighter. So when he got cancer, I told myself what I had told myself through every other storm.
We would get through it.
Two days before he died, he reached into the drawer beside his bed and handed me a sealed envelope.
We did not.
Two days before he died, he reached into the drawer beside his bed and handed me a sealed envelope.
A woman’s name was written on the front.
Not mine.
I looked at it, then at him. “Who is she?”
His hand shook. “If something happens to me, promise you’ll take that to her yourself.”
The funeral passed in a blur of flowers, casseroles, and people telling me what a good man my husband had been.
