PART 3
The most recent was only 11 days before Walter died.
I stared at the dates.
Three years.
Three years of payments.
Three years of secrets.
And somehow, I had never noticed a single one.
Walter and I had shared a checking account for most of our marriage.
I knew what came in.
I knew what went out.
I knew the mortgage, utilities, insurance, groceries, property taxes, medications, and the endless little expenses of ordinary life.
But these payments had never appeared in our joint account.
That meant one thing.
He had been using cash.
Or another account.
I looked deeper into the box.
There was a small black notebook.
Walter’s handwriting was on the cover.
Property.
I opened it.
The first few pages contained names of contractors and repair companies.
Then I found the word Lillian.
Underneath it was an address.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
It was the address of the Duluth property.
The blue house.
My throat tightened.
Walter had not been talking about some imaginary house during his final days.
He had known exactly what he meant.
I kept turning pages.
There were notes about roof repairs.
Property taxes.
A furnace replacement.
Insurance.
Then one sentence written across an entire page.
She cannot lose the house.
I stopped breathing for a moment.
She.
Lillian.
The woman my husband had secretly been sending money to.
The woman whose name had never once entered our home.
The woman connected to a house Walter had owned before I knew him.
I should have been furious.
Instead, I felt something worse.
I felt confused.
Because Walter wasn’t a careless man.
He wasn’t someone who secretly maintained a second life because he wanted excitement.
For 42 years, our marriage had been painfully ordinary.
There had been arguments.
There had been disappointments.
There had been years when we barely spoke except about bills, groceries, work, and family.
But there had never been another woman.
At least, I had believed that.
I picked up the faded photograph.
It was tucked beneath the notebook.
The photograph Joanne had described.
The blue house stood behind them.
I recognized it immediately from the address.
It was small.
One story.
White trim around the windows.
A front porch with a wooden swing.
And the door was unmistakably blue.
Walter was standing beside a woman.
She looked younger than me.
Younger than Walter.
Maybe in her early twenties.
She had dark hair pulled over one shoulder.
In front of them was a baby.
I turned the photograph over.
There were four words.
Before Judith. Don’t destroy.
My hands began shaking.
Before Judith.
I knew what that meant.
Whatever this was, it existed before me.
Before our wedding.
Before our life together.
Before the children.
Before the house where we had spent 42 years.
I should have put the photograph back.
Instead, I searched for more.
There was a folded birth announcement.
A hospital bracelet.
Several handwritten letters.
And one document that made my heart pound.
A birth certificate.
I unfolded it.
The baby’s name was Daniel Mercer.
Mother:
Lillian Anne Mercer.
Father:
The line was blank.
I stared at that empty space.
Then I looked at the photograph again.
Walter was holding the baby.
Not standing beside him.
Holding him.
His expression was unlike anything I’d seen in years.
He looked young.
Happy.
Protective.
Alive.
I sat there for a long time.
Then I heard the workshop door creak.
I almost screamed.
It was my daughter, Rachel.
“Mom?”
I quickly shoved the photograph beneath the notebook.
“What are you doing down here?”
She stepped inside.
“I called you three times.”
“I didn’t hear the phone.”
Rachel looked at my face.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She didn’t believe me.
She never had.
“Mom, you’ve been down here for almost an hour.”
“I was looking for something.”
“What?”
I hesitated.
Then I said the first thing that came into my mind.
“Dad’s old property records.”
Rachel’s expression changed.
“Why?”
“Because the hospice nurse mentioned something.”
“What?”
I looked at her.
For a second, I wanted to tell her everything.
But then I remembered the words on the photograph.
Before Judith. Don’t destroy.
I didn’t know what Walter had been hiding.
And I didn’t know whether the truth would hurt my children more than it hurt me.
So I closed the shoebox.
“Nothing important,” I said.
Rachel watched me carefully.
Then she nodded.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Dad loved you.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
“I know.”
She swallowed.
“He told me something last year.”
“What?”
“That no matter what happened after he died, I wasn’t supposed to let you think your marriage had been a mistake.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Why would he say that?”
“I don’t know.”
Rachel hugged me.
I held onto her longer than usual.
After she left, I went back to the box.
I pulled out the birth certificate again.
Daniel Mercer.
Then I noticed something I’d missed.
There was a handwritten date beside the child’s name.
