The grief, this time not for Ethan, not even for the marriage in its current broken form, but for the year I spent shrinking my own intelligence to keep peace with a liar. The nights I lay awake replaying conversations. The moments I nearly apologized for suspicions that turned out to be generosity on my part. The quiet erosion of trust in my own mind.
Margaret had seen that happening and left me tools instead of comfort.
It is the most loving thing she ever did.
I open the journal.
The first pages are what I expect: medication notes, board reminders, lists for Dolores, names of people to thank, burial preferences Margaret phrased with enough irritation to suggest death itself had been an inconvenient scheduling conflict.
Then the entries deepen.