Maybe we would have divorced at twenty-four.
Maybe we would have been miserable.
Maybe the little white house would have leaked and the three children would have driven us insane.
You cannot mourn an imaginary life as though happiness was guaranteed.
I cried because somebody else had chosen for us.
That was different.
Then I remembered something.
“1998.”
Samuel looked at me.
“Yes.”
“Walter learned the truth in 1998.”
“Yes.”
I did the math.
I had already been married to Harold for twenty-seven years.
Walter was married to Joan.
“So he knew for almost thirty years.”
“Yes.”
“And never contacted me.”
“No.”
That hurt too.
Maybe more honestly.
I looked through the remaining letters.
Walter had written one after receiving his mother’s confession.
It was addressed to me.
Never mailed.
Dear Margaret,
I found out today that you did not leave me any more than I left you.
I stopped.
Then continued.
