And I wanted you to have the choice I took away from you when we were young.
I lowered the letter.
For a long time, I couldn’t say anything.
Then I whispered:
“She was sorry.”
Anna nodded.
“Very.”
I looked down at the letter again.
There was one final page.
I read it slowly.
David,
I don’t expect forgiveness.
If you cannot forgive me, I understand.
But please don’t let my mistake destroy the good years we had.
I loved you.
That part was never a lie.
The children were never a lie.
Our home was never a lie.
The laughter, the arguments, the vacations, the nights we stayed awake talking, the mornings we shared coffee—none of that was false.
I made one terrible decision before our life together began.
But the love I gave you afterward was real.
Please remember that.
And please tell Anna that I am sorry.
She deserved the truth a long time ago.
You both did.
Goodbye, David.
I wish I had been brave enough to tell you this while I was still alive.
I folded the letter.
I couldn’t breathe properly.
For thirty-six years, I had believed my marriage began naturally.
Now I knew it had begun with a betrayal.
