I don’t know what compelled me to return to that house. Habit. Love. Or maybe the simple truth that despite everything, I couldn’t stand the idea of him suffering alone. So I moved back in, tending to him day and night. There were moments when he tried to speak, as if he wanted to apologize, but the words never fully came. I just kept caring for him — even though he had broken me in ways I didn’t know were possible.
Almost a year later, he passed away quietly in his sleep. I thought that chapter of my life had finally closed… until the day of his funeral.
She showed up — the young woman. Without makeup, without confidence, almost unrecognizable. In her hands was a small box. She pressed it into mine and whispered, “You should have this.”
Inside was his journal.
My knees nearly buckled as I opened it. Page after page revealed a man drowning in regret. He wrote that letting me go was “the biggest mistake of my life,” that I had always been “the love of my life,” and that losing me had shattered something inside him.
She confessed that she had read the journal months earlier, and only then realized he had never truly loved her. That was why she left when he got sick. She said she had taken the journal intending to destroy it out of anger — but after his death, she knew I deserved the truth.
I didn’t know whether to hate her or thank her.
But the final blow came during the reading of his will. He had left everything — every asset, every property, every account — to me. His lawyer said he had insisted I was the only one worthy of carrying his legacy.
I cried uncontrollably. Not for the money. But for the five months that broke us — a wound in a love story that, despite everything, had never truly ended.
