I met Matthew last spring at a friend’s cookout — I watched him across the yard and was hooked almost instantly. He was gentle: soft-spoken, patient, careful with his words. He told me his wife died in a car accident a year and a half ago, and that he had a five-year-old daughter, Mia.
He was open about his pain, but also about how he was falling in love again — with me. When Mia first slipped her small hand into mine during a walk, something in me cracked. When she shyly called me “Miss Lila,” I believed I could be the one for them.
Our wedding was small and simple. Afterwards we went to his house — a home he had shared with his late wife. I told myself it didn’t bother me. We were starting fresh.
That night, as I put away my earrings, I noticed a piece of old paper taped under the nightstand drawer. I pulled it out. On the envelope was written, “If you’re reading this, he didn’t tell you the truth.” My breath caught.
Inside was a letter. The first line read: “I know my time is running out. And if Matthew has remarried, I’m praying you found this before he hid the rest.”
My stomach flipped. Matthew had never told me the full story.
Then a crash echoed from the hallway. Glass shattered. Mia screamed. I left the letter behind and rushed to clean up— only to return and find the nightstand drawer closed. The letter was gone.
I realized: Matthew knew. He must’ve taken it while I was cleaning. Overnight, gentle Matthew became a stranger.
That morning was silent and tense. His eyes looked tired; Mia barely touched her cereal.
When he kissed me goodbye, his lips barely brushed my cheek. I stood frozen, knowing I couldn’t trust him anymore.
I followed Mia to the kitchen table. She slid a drawing toward me: a woman lying in bed holding a rectangle; next to her, a child with a dark “X” over her mouth. “It’s a secret,” Mia whispered.
She led me to the basement. Inside a plastic box: tubing, old prescription bottles, a portable oxygen concentrator.
Mia’s mother hadn’t died in a crash — she’d been sick.
Then Mia handed me the letter again. “This is Mommy’s,” she said quietly. “I kept it. I was trying to protect Daddy’s secret.”
Tears filled my eyes. I read the letter: the truth — she had been dying. She’d written it for me, in case he married again.
It wasn’t a confession of cruelty. It was a broken man trying to protect someone he loved.
That evening, when Matthew came home, I confronted him. I held out the fragile letter.
“You lied to me,” I said. Then: “You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”