Under the bed, I found a battered cardboard file box—the kind Colby normally used for tax papers. Inside were stacks of medical bills, nearly all stamped PAST DUE in red. Surgery. Rehabilitation. Eye specialists. The total on the first page exceeded $87,000. Then I found something underneath that made my stomach drop: a termination letter from Colby’s engineering firm. It was dated five months earlier.

For five months, Colby had kissed my forehead every morning and told me he was leaving for work. Beneath the termination letter was a sealed envelope with my name written across it in his familiar block letters: “To Grace, if you ever see again.” My vision was still blurry, but clear enough to read. I tore the envelope open. The first sentence made my hands shake. I’m sorry I lied about where I go every day. Then I discovered where my husband had actually been going each morning.

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