I fed him soup when he could no longer hold a spoon.
I washed his hair.
Changed his sheets.
Slept in a chair beside his hospice bed.
On his final morning, he squeezed my hand and said, "You were the best part of my life."
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I believed him.
Maybe I still did.
That was the cruelest part.
"Why did it end?" I asked.
"Ruth said they chose their families."
"How noble."
David flinched.
"They ended the affair 21 years ago."
"But kept writing?"
"For a while. The last letters were apologies."
"To each other?"
"Mostly."
I looked at the envelope again.
"And that?"
"Michael wrote it to you."
"Why didn't he give it to me?"
"I think he gave it to Ruth because he was afraid."
"Afraid of me?"
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"Afraid of losing you."
I laughed bitterly.
"He risked losing me for 11 years."
"I know."
"No, David. You know what your wife did. You do not know what my husband did to me."
He accepted that without defending himself.
It made my anger harder to hold in one shape.
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