“I know.”
“You knew?” My voice shook.
“He asked us not to tell you,” she said gently. “He said you would stay… and he couldn’t let that happen.”
“And that was wrong?”
Her grip tightened on her purse.
“He didn’t just ask. He put it in writing.”
She handed me a folded page. At the top: “DO NOT CONTACT JULIA UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.”
My name looked unfamiliar beside his signature.
The date was five years ago.
I didn’t open the letter at the church.
At home, I changed, made tea, and sat on the back porch—the one we never fixed.
The garden was still there. The hydrangeas had come back.
I held the letter for a long time before opening it.
His handwriting hadn’t changed.
“Julia,
I didn’t touch anyone else, my love. I promise. There was no affair.
I got the diagnosis and knew what it would do to you.
