Chapter 8
Winter returned,
and with it came the one-year anniversary of the kitchen.
We hung a small banner across the dining room,
and Clara baked a massive sheet cake.
The room was packed,
filled with regulars and new faces seeking refuge from the snow.
Andrew stood on a chair,
and he gave a short speech.
He thanked the volunteers,
and he thanked the community.
Then,
he looked at me,
and his voice grew thick with emotion.
He said that true homes are not built with bricks,
but with resilience.
He raised his paper cup,
and everyone cheered.
I clapped,
and I wiped a stray tear from my cheek.
It was a perfect moment,
and it was entirely ours.
Later that evening,
after the floors were mopped and the lights were dimmed,
Andrew and Clara stayed behind to help me lock up.
Andrew asked me if I wanted to go out for dinner to celebrate,
but I told him I was too tired.
I told them to go,
and I watched them walk down the snowy sidewalk,
holding hands.
I went back into the office,
and I sat at the desk.
The silence of the building was heavy,
but it was not lonely.
I unlocked the bottom drawer,
and I pulled out the leather-bound journal.
I had ignored it for months,
but tonight,
I felt strong enough to face him.
I turned on the desk lamp,
and I opened the cover.
The handwriting was undeniably Thomas,
messy and rushed,
like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.
The first page was dated just a month before he died.
He wrote about the pain in his chest,
and he wrote about his fear of leaving me alone.
I turned the page,
and the entries became darker.
He wrote about Lydia,
and he wrote about the mistake he had made when he was young.
He did not write with affection,
but with a deep,
gnawing guilt.
He wrote that he had paid Lydia off for years,
sending her money in secret to keep her away from us.
He wrote that when she demanded a piece of the estate,
he panicked.
He amended the trust because she threatened to tell me the truth,
and he was terrified that I would leave him.
I read the words,
and I felt a strange mixture of pity and disgust.
He had chosen cowardice over honesty,
and he had let an extortionist hold a knife to our marriage.
He wrote that he hoped I would never find out,
but if I did,
he hoped the clause he added would protect me.
It was a pathetic apology,
written by a man who wanted to be a hero without doing the hard work of being truthful.
I closed the book,
and I did not cry.
I just felt a profound sense of finality.
He was a flawed man,
and he was gone.
May you like
I was a strong woman,
and I was still here.
