His face drained.
I handed him the folder Marissa’s lawyer had prepared.
- Separation papers.
- Financial disclosures.
- Copies of every document from the hidden room behind that door.
“Your mistress thinks I’m dying. She thinks I’m being moved into a care facility.”
“Gina, please…”
“I already reached out to her. She deserved the truth.”
I handed him the folder.
While Marissa photographed the hidden room, I’d spotted an envelope on the side table addressed to Penelope. Her phone number was scrawled beneath the return address. I’d copied it into my own handwriting before we left.
***
Brian begged then, low and desperate, reaching for my hand as he’d done a thousand times before. I stepped back.
“The woman you thought would never see you again is standing right here. And I see everything.”
I left without another word.
I’d spotted an envelope.
***
Weeks later, I sat by the window of my own small apartment.
The Christmas lights I’d finally strung glowed across the glass, catching the evening light.
Marissa knocked, her arms full of takeout containers and a bottle of wine.
“You look different,” she said, smiling.
“I feel different.”
I sat by the window.
On the counter sat a short note from Penelope.
Just one line.
“Thank you for telling me the truth.”
I looked at the lights, then at my own reflection in the window.
Losing my sight had taught me how to trust others.
Getting it back had taught me how to trust myself.
