Susan’s chin trembled. “I didn’t mean for you to find it.”
I pulled the note from my purse and held it up. “Who are the kids, Susan?”
For a moment, I thought she’d faint. Then she gave a tiny nod.
“They’re his,” she said. “They’re Greg’s kids.”
A buzz went through the people nearby. Someone gasped.
“You’re saying my husband has children with you?” I asked.
She swallowed. “Two. A boy and a girl.”
“I’m not. He didn’t want to hurt you. He told me not to bring them. He didn’t want you to see them.”
Every word felt like it was aimed right between my ribs. I looked around at all the eyes on us. Friends, neighbors, coworkers. My humiliation was suddenly a group activity.
I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t scream in front of Greg’s casket.
So I did the only thing I could.
I turned and walked out.
I’d never read them.
***
After the burial, the house felt like a stranger’s.
His shoes were still by the door. His mug on the counter. His glasses on the nightstand.
I sat on the edge of our bed and stared at the closet shelf.
Eleven journals in a neat row. Greg’s handwriting on the spines.