My husband of 39 years always kept a locked cupboard in it – after his death, I paid a locksmith to open it, and I wish I hadn't.
When you're married this long, you trade certain curiosities for peace. You stop digging into little mysteries because you trust the man who holds the key. But once Thomas left, I couldn't ignore that locked door anymore.
After the funeral, I sorted his sweaters and folded his Sunday shirts.
Every time I headed towards the room, that locked door at the end of the corridor seemed to get heavier.
At first, I thought it was disrespectful to look. Everything he kept there belonged to him, and if he wanted to be buried, I should let him die.
But I couldn't.
Once Thomas had left, I could no longer ignore that locked door.
On the tenth day of my widowhood, I picked up the phone and called a locksmith. When the locksmith arrived, a young man with a heavy tool belt and a bored expression, I stood back and watched.
The metallic click of the lock finally giving way echoed in the narrow hall. The door creaked open. The air inside was thick and smelled of dust and yellowed paper.
No skeletons were hanging from hooks.
There were only stacks of boxes and a heavy metal safe sitting on a shelf.
I picked up the phone and called a locksmith.
"Do you want me to blow this one up too?" asked the locksmith, pointing to the safe.
" Please. "
I sat down on the floor and pulled the first box towards me while the locksmith started working on the safe. Inside, I found bundles of letters tied together with coarse string. They looked to be several decades old.
I took one out and read the first few lines.
I found bundles of letters tied together with coarse string.
Tom, the check arrived yesterday. Thank you. I didn't know how I was going to pay for the cleats and the league fees this month. He doesn't know where the money came from. I told him it came from an old friend of his father's. I hope it's all right. He sometimes asks about you. — M
In that heartbeat, I realized I should have forced the situation while he was alive, or never opened that closet.
My skin was cold. I opened the next one.
Tom, the check arrived yesterday. Thank you.
Tom, you don't need to keep doing this. I know how hard it is for you to send him. But if you're going to keep helping me, we need to talk about how long we're going to keep the truth from him. He's not a little boy anymore. He deserves to know who you mean to him. — Marilyn
And there you have it.
Thirty-nine years of marriage, and the only conclusion I could reach was that Thomas had a secret child — a whole life I wasn't invited to see.
We need to talk about how long we're going to keep the truth from him/her.
