That night, I didn’t sleep.
Instead, I opened the first of Greg’s journals again.
There were eleven in total, stacked neatly in his study drawer, each labeled by year in his careful handwriting. I had already gone through them once in a panic, searching for answers, for proof—of betrayal, of secrets, of a life I hadn’t known.
But now I read differently.
Slower.
Listening.
The early journals were exactly what I remembered.
Notes about bills, reminders to fix the car, grocery lists scribbled in the margins. But woven between those ordinary details were pieces of us—small, quiet moments I had forgotten.
“She laughed today at something silly I said. I don’t think she knows how much that sound carries me.”
“Doctor’s appointment didn’t go well. She tried to be brave. I wish I could fix this for her.”
