Five years after my husband Richard ended our 38-year marriage by confessing to an affair, I stood at his funeral carrying more numbness than grief. We had divorced quietly, and though our children stayed close to him, I kept my distance, convinced betrayal had erased everything we once shared. As the service ended, a woman I didn’t recognize approached me and said she had cared for Richard during his final days and needed to give me something he had left behind.
She explained that Richard had been in hospice care, battling an illness he kept hidden. According to her, he had insisted that no one contact me, fearing I would sacrifice my life to care for him. Before leaving, she handed me a letter he had written, one he wanted me to read only after he was gone. Confused and unsettled, I took it home, unsure if I even wanted to open it.
That night, sitting alone on my porch, I finally read his words. Richard admitted there had never been another woman. He had invented the affair after learning about his condition because he believed pushing me away would spare me years of pain. He thought anger would help me move on and live freely, even if it meant losing my trust forever.
The truth didn’t erase the hurt, but it changed how I saw our ending. When I later shared the letter with our children, we understood that love can sometimes take complicated forms. In the end, I chose to remember not just the betrayal, but also the years of partnership that shaped our lives and the quiet, imperfect love that remained.