His distant looks near the end.
The nights he stayed awake, thinking I was asleep.
The sadness he never explained.
What if he didn’t leave because he stopped loving me?
I needed answers.
The next morning, I drove north to a small town in Oregon where his older sister, Margaret, lived.
Her house sat near open farmland, quiet and modest.
When I knocked, my voice shook.
“Margaret… it’s me.”
She opened the door, and the moment she saw my face, tears filled her eyes.
“You came,” she whispered.
“Where is Howard?” I asked.
“I need to talk to him.”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she disappeared inside and returned holding a small wooden box.
Her hands were trembling.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
“Howard passed away.”
The words hit me like a collapse inside my chest.
“No… that’s not possible,” I said.
“It’s only been five years.”
She nodded, crying.“He was already very sick before the divorce.”
The Truth He Never Told Me
Margaret took a deep breath.
“He didn’t want you to watch him fade,” she explained.
“He didn’t want your last years together to be filled with hospitals and fear.”
She placed the wooden box in my hands.
“He said to give this to you only if you came looking for him.”
Inside was a letter.
His handwriting.
Familiar. Careful.
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