“I wish I could trade bodies with her and carry this instead,” he had written.
I flipped through journal after journal. There were holidays, bills, petty arguments over paint colors, my migraines, and his fear of flying.
There was no mention of another woman.
There were no hidden children.
By the sixth journal, the tone shifted.
“Lydia pushing for three-year contract,” he wrote. “Quality slipping. The last shipment was defective. Two clients complained.”
Another entry read, “Told her we’re done if it doesn’t improve. She got angry. Accused me of trying to sink her business.”
Weeks later, he wrote, “Lawyer says we could sue for breach. But she has two kids. Don’t want to destroy a family over it.”
Underneath, in darker ink, he added, “I’ll walk away. But I won’t forget what she’s capable of.”
I sat back slowly.
Two kids.
Her kids.
Not his.
What if there had never been a secret family? What if she had walked into my grief and decided it was not enough?
I called Marcus.
