We had celebrated our 30th anniversary just last year. I gave her a necklace with a swan pendant. She gave me a fountain pen with my name engraved on it; we’d laughed over wine and toasted to another 30 years together.
Had she meant it?
I dug further into the box, my heart pounding harder now.
Beneath the divorce papers was another envelope. Inside was a birth certificate.
“Lila T. Female.
Born May 7, 1990.
Mother: Claire T.
Father: Unlisted.”
Lila had been born three years before Claire and I had married. I had never heard her name. I had never seen this certificate.
I stared at the page, completely stunned. My wife had lived an entire chapter of her life without me — and never told me a word.
Maybe I saw the sadness in Claire’s eyes, saw what the waiting, during my recovery, was doing to her. Perhaps, I wanted to set her free — even if I didn’t know what I was losing.
I sank back against the bed, the paper falling into my lap.
The house felt too quiet now, the silence pressing in like a second skin.
I stared at the open box on the floor, willing it to shift and offer a better explanation.
I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel.
Grief? Yes.
Confusion?
Absolutely.
Then came the knock at the door.
It was firm, not tentative like a neighbor offering condolences or a casserole of food. This was someone who knew they had a reason to be here.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and stood. My legs felt heavier than they should have.
When I opened the door, a man in a charcoal suit stood on the porch holding an envelope.
“Yes.”
“My name is Mr. Johnson. I was your wife’s attorney.
May I come in for a moment?”
I nodded, stepping back to let him inside. We didn’t shake hands. He followed me into the living room and paused just before sitting.
I hesitated, wondering what on earth Claire could have left behind that wasn’t as unnerving as the contents of the box.
I took the envelope from him, and seeing Claire’s handwriting stopped me.
There was just my first name, written with the same curve and ease she used when labeling spice jars or writing “pick up milk” on the fridge notepad.
I opened it slowly, unfolding the pages as they might crumble.
“My dearest James,
If you’re reading this, then I am gone.”
She didn’t waste any time writing about other things. Every single word was measured.
Lila — a daughter I’d never known, from a pregnancy she’d faced alone.
Lila is my daughter. I had her when I was 20. I wasn’t ready to be a mother, not really, and I believed that I was doing the right thing by placing her with a family who could give her a stable life.
I never stopped thinking about her.Continue reading…
