“It’s worth a lot,” I said.
I grabbed an empty notebook from my nightstand.
After he left, I went back upstairs and picked up Greg’s journal again.
“I’ll let it go. But I won’t forget what she’s capable of.”
“Neither will I,” I said.
I sat on the floor, grabbed an empty notebook from my nightstand, and opened it to the first page.
If Susan could write lies and tuck them into my husband’s hands, I could write the truth and keep it with me.
Advertisement
My marriage wasn’t a lie.
So I started. About Greg. About the rose. About the note. About the cameras. About Luis, Peter, and Ben. About a woman who walked into a funeral and tried to bury a good man twice. I don’t know what I’ll do with it yet.
But I know this: My marriage wasn’t a lie.
My husband was flawed and human and stubborn and sometimes annoying. But he was mine.
And even after everything, when I turn the pages of those journals, one thing is always there, over and over, in the margins and the little lines between his thoughts.
Advertisement
“I love her.”
He never hid that.
“I love her.”
If you could give one piece of advice to anyone in this story, what would it be? Let’s talk about it in the Facebook comments.
If you enjoyed this story, you might like another about a woman who came back from a business trip, only to find her MIL holding auditions to replace her as her son’s wife.
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
