Claire reached into the envelope again and slid the life-insurance policy across the table.
The beneficiary listed was not Claire.
It was me.
The policy was for two million dollars, taken out the same week the divorce was finalized. The premiums had been paid in full from a private account Robert had quietly opened years earlier—an account I never knew existed.
“He told me,” Claire said, voice breaking, “that the only way he could still take care of you… was to make you believe he no longer wanted you.”
I opened the letter with trembling fingers.
Robert’s handwriting was weaker than I remembered, but every word was clear.
My dearest,
If you are reading this, I am already gone. I need you to know that the last words I spoke to you were the hardest of my life. I never stopped loving you. Not for a single day. The cancer was going to take everything from us—our home, your future, the quiet years we still hoped to have. I could not let that happen. Claire agreed to help me carry the burden so that you would be free of it. She is not my wife in any way that matters. She is simply the person who allowed me to protect you one last time. Please do not hate her. And please do not hate me for the pain I caused. Everything I did was so that you could keep living without the weight I could no longer carry. I loved you for thirty-nine years. I will love you longer than that.
— Robert
The letter slipped from my hands.
Claire sat across from me, silent, waiting.
For a long time the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock Robert and I had bought on our tenth anniversary.
