Six months ago, my husband’s best friend, David, died of a heart attack. I remember Mark’s face when he told me — hollow, defeated. I hugged him, but his arms hung limp. I thought it was grief. I didn’t realize guilt was there too.
At the funeral, David’s widow, Sarah, looked fragile. Their son, Leo, clung to her dress. Mark comforted them both with a careful, protective touch. After everyone left, Mark lingered at David’s casket, whispering to him. Later that night, he said, “Leo doesn’t have a dad. I need to step up.”
A week later, Sarah agreed to let Mark spend Saturdays with Leo. “Practice, burgers, maybe some other guy stuff,” he said. Everyone called him a saint — even I believed it.
A month in, I suggested, “Bring Leo here after practice. I’ll cook. We can help.” Mark hesitated but agreed.
The first Saturday, Leo was timid, clutching his backpack. We baked cookies; I read Harry Potter. Mark watched silently, and Leo kept glancing at him nervously.
This past Saturday, practice ended early due to rain. Mark left complaining of a headache. The moment he was gone, Leo changed. He gripped a crayon so hard his knuckles whitened.
“You don’t lie,” he said. Then he pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “Mark lied. I wasn’t supposed to take this. I took it from Daddy’s casket… he slid it under his hand, but I saw.”
I unfolded it. In Mark’s handwriting:
“David, I need you to take this secret to the grave with you… I love Sarah. I always have. I never acted on it. I would never do that to you. But now I’ll step in for Leo. Forgive me for loving what was never mine.”
My legs gave out.
Leo whispered, “That’s why he’s mad sometimes. When Mom doesn’t answer his texts or says no to visits, he gets scary.”
I drove Leo home and gave Sarah the note. She went pale, trembling. “He knew it was wrong… he was never coming near my son or me again.”
When I got home, Mark was waiting. “Where did you get that?” he hissed.
“From Leo. You crossed lines, Mark. You weren’t honoring David — you were waiting for a turn that would never come.”
He raged, I packed a suitcase. “I’m leaving you,” I said.
I stepped out into the rain, leaving him behind, finally free to breathe.