Then his 81-year-old father, Frank, stumbled toward me, reeking of whiskey. “You don’t even know what he did for you, do you?” he said.
“This isn’t the time,” I told him.
“You think I don’t know about the money? The hotel room? Same one, every time?” He laughed bitterly. “He thought he was being careful.”
“What are you saying?”
“He told me. At the end. He said if you ever found out, it had to be after. After it couldn’t hurt you anymore.”
“There are things,” he added, backing away, “that aren’t affairs. And there are lies that don’t come from wanting someone else.”
The answer came days later. A courier envelope arrived with my name typed neatly on the front. Inside was a single letter. I recognized Troy’s handwriting immediately.
I need you to know this plainly: I lied to you, and I chose to. He explained that he’d been receiving medical treatment. Not local. Not simple. He was afraid that once he said it out loud, he’d become my responsibility instead of my partner.
So he paid for rooms. Moved money. Answered badly. And when I asked him directly, he still didn’t tell me. That was wrong. You did nothing wrong. You made your decision with the truth you had. I hope one day that brings you peace. I loved you the best way I knew how.
I didn’t cry right away. I sat there, the paper in my hands, letting the words settle. He had lied. That hadn’t changed. But now I understood the shape of it.
If only he’d let me in. I folded the letter, placed it back in the envelope, and sat there thinking about a man I’d known and loved my entire life—and lost twice.
