When he passed, it was early morning. The light was pale and gentle. I held his hand and whispered that he wasn’t alone.
At his funeral, I saw her—the younger woman. She hovered at the edge of the crowd, unsure, like someone who didn’t quite belong. When everyone else had left, she approached me holding a shoebox.
“I need you to have this,” she said. Her voice trembled.
Inside was a journal.
For illustrative purposes only
Page after page, written during the months we were apart. Confessions he never had the courage to say aloud. Regret spilled in uneven handwriting. Losing me, he wrote, was “the biggest mistake of my life.” He called me “the love of my life,” over and over, as if repetition might rewrite reality.
She told me she’d found it by accident. Read enough to realize she was never the future—just an escape. When he got sick, she left. She took the journal with her, planning to destroy it. But after he died, guilt—or truth—won.
I wept harder than I had in months. Not from vindication, but from grief for what pride had stolen.
Later, his lawyer called. Everything—savings, property, accounts—had been left to me. He had insisted on it. Said I was the only one who deserved it.
I would have traded it all for those four lost months.
They still feel like a shadow on a love that never truly ended. A scar where time was wasted proving something we both already knew.
But I am thankful—deeply, painfully thankful—that I took him in during his final days. That I chose compassion over bitterness. Because if I hadn’t, I would never have forgiven myself.
Love doesn’t always get a second chance. Sometimes, it only gets one final act of grace.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
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