My husband and I had built a calm and stable marriage, but there was a closet in our house that I was never allowed to open. After his death, I hired a locksmith to force it open. I expected to find old papers inside. Instead, I discovered proof that the man I loved had been hiding a life I never knew existed.
I married Thomas when I was 19. We were kids with nothing but a small apartment, a few second-hand chairs, and dreams that far exceeded our current account.
We built our life one brick at a time: buying a house, saving for retirement, and following all the other boring but necessary steps to build a solid and stable life.
I prided myself on having an honest marriage.
I was an idiot.
I prided myself on having an honest marriage.
Thirty-nine years later, I stood in the rain and watched them lower Thomas into the earth.
"A heart attack," the doctors said. They told me it was quick.
"At least he didn't suffer," they murmured during the wake.
I simply nodded. People say that as if it provided some kind of cushioning for the fall, but it didn't.
Grief is a silent thing after four decades. It doesn't scream. It simply reminds you that the space on the other side of the table is now a permanent vacant space.
I stood in the rain and watched them lower Thomas into the earth.
Thomas was not a man of secrets. At least, that's the story I told myself for half my life.
He was open, kind, and predictable.
But there was one exception.
At the end of our corridor was a cupboard. He kept it locked. Always.
Every time I asked him what was inside, he replied, "Just old paperwork, Margaret. Nothing interesting."
I believed him.
Thomas was not a man of secrets.
