I didn’t ask.
By then, I had learned what happened when I did.
Once, I found him sitting alone in the garage after midnight.
The car wasn’t running.
He was simply behind the wheel, staring through the windshield.
“Why are you sitting out here?”
I opened the passenger door.
“Robert?”
He wiped his face quickly.
“You scared me.”
“Why are you sitting out here?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Mary, after all these years, don’t you trust me?”
I noticed the blue envelope beside him.
“Who keeps writing to you?”
He looked down.
Then he reached across and squeezed my hand.
“Mary, after all these years, don’t you trust me?”
That question silenced me.
Robert had never disappeared without explanation.
Because I did trust him.
Robert had never disappeared without explanation. Never guarded his phone. Never given me reason to suspect another woman.
We had two children together, Daniel and Rebecca. Later came four grandchildren who treated Robert like their personal climbing frame.
Whatever was inside seemed to belong to a life before me, and I decided marriage did not entitle me to every part of his past.
So I stopped asking.
The envelopes kept coming.
At first, the doctors talked about treatment.
Every birthday.
For thirty years.
Then Robert got sick.
At first, the doctors talked about treatment.
Later, they started talking about comfort.
Two nights before he died, I was changing his blanket when his hand suddenly closed around my wrist.
Within months, the man who had once carried two grandchildren at once needed my help lifting a glass of water.
His study stayed closed during those final weeks. I wondered whether the letters were hidden inside, but searching felt like breaking an unspoken rule.
Two nights before he died, I was changing his blanket when his hand suddenly closed around my wrist.
“Mary.”
His voice was barely there.
“If another birthday letter comes… don’t open it.”
“I’m here.”
His eyes found mine.
“If another birthday letter comes… don’t open it.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Promise me.”
“You’re frightening me.”
“Robert, who sends them?”
