I walked out of that chapel feeling as if the ground had shifted, as if the man I buried was not the man I’d married. But the silence of our home demanded answers, not hysteria. In the worn pages of Greg’s journals, I found no trace of a double life, only an ordinary man wrestling with work, regrets, and a steady, imperfect love for me. Susan’s name appeared, not as a secret lover, but as a professional adversary whose bitterness had deep roots.
With his best friend’s help, I confirmed the DNA, the timelines, the facts: her children were not his. The note had been a final act of spite, a cruel attempt to stain a goodbye she was never invited to share. My grief remained, but it was mine again—no longer tangled in someone else’s lie. I started writing my own journal, not to worship Greg, but to remember him honestly. Love, I realized, doesn’t need to be flawless to be true; it only needs to survive the worst stories told about it and still feel like home.
