She was quiet at first. Then she said, “I didn’t know he was married. I found out later, and I ended it.”
I believed her.
Her voice cracked just slightly when she said, “I’m sorry. I thought I was the only one he was lying to.”
I thanked her. And then I cried in my car until the windows fogged up.
The decision to separate wasn’t instant. We tried therapy. We had long talks.
Some of them ended in shouting, some in silence. A few ended with us holding each other like we were drowning. But it wasn’t enough.
The truth was, I couldn’t look at him the same way. I couldn’t go back to the version of us that only existed because I didn’t know. I moved out that fall.
Into a tiny rental with uneven floors and peeling paint—but it was mine. I bought second-hand furniture, learned how to hang shelves, and rediscovered what kind of music I actually liked. Funny enough, it wasn’t the soft jazz Lyle always put on during dinner.
I started listening to old soul records. Loud. With the windows open.
One Saturday morning, about a year later, I ran into Lyle at the farmer’s market. He looked older, like he’d been carrying the weight of a thousand apologies. We talked.
Not about us—but about life. He told me his sister had just had a baby. I told him I was learning to bake, badly.
Before we parted, he said, “I think about that note every day.”
I nodded. “I don’t.”
And I meant it. Not out of cruelty—but because I’d finally let it go.
Sometimes the truth shatters you. But other times, it sets you free. I lost a marriage, yes.
But I found myself again in the pieces. So if you ever find a note like that in a forgotten box, remember: what hurts you today might be the thing that saves you tomorrow.
