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My world started to unravel with a leaky
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roof. After 23 years of marriage, our
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Portland house finally decided to show
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its age. My wife, Myra, had beenounding
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me for months to get it fixed. But
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between my job at the insurance firm and
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her nursing shifts, we barely had time
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to breathe, let alone deal with home
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The water damage was worse than I
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expected. The contractor, Lewis, shook
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his head when he saw the attic.
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You've got mold issues up here, he said.
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We need to clear everything out before
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we can start. That's when I found it.
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Tucked behind a box of old Christmas
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decorations wrapped in a plastic bag
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like some kind of forbidden treasure was
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a leatherbound journal. The cover was
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worn smooth, and when I opened it, I saw
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Myra's handwriting. But it wasn't the
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neat, careful script I knew from grocery
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lists and birthday cards. This was
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different. raw, honest.
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The first entry was dated three years
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ago. I can't keep pretending anymore.
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When I'm with Vincent, I feel like
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myself again, not like the woman who
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makes dinner and asks about insurance
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claims. He sees me the way I used to be.
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Vincent, I knew that name. He was a
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doctor at the hospital where Myra
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worked. I'd met him at a few
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fundraisers. A friendly guy, married
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with twin daughters. I sat in that dusty
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attic for 2 hours reading about my
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wife's affair with clinical precision.
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She documented everything. Their first
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conversation by the vending machine,
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their first coffee date, the first time
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she lied to me about working late.
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But it wasn't just the affair that was
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gutting me. It was how she wrote about
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me. Tom asked me about my day again. He
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does that every evening like clockwork.
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I used to think it was sweet. Now I
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realize he's not really listening. He's
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just going through the motions because
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that's what husbands do. I made his
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favorite dinner tonight, meatloaf with
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mashed potatoes. He thanked me three
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times. Vincent would have noticed I was
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Tom just ate and talked about his day
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like nothing was wrong. Page after page
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of my failures as a husband, cataloged
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with the same attention to detail she
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used for her nursing notes. every missed
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cue, every conversation I'd tuned out,
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every time I'd chosen the TV over her.
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The worst part was realizing she wasn't
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Somewhere between the mortgage payments
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and the routine of 23 years, I had
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stopped seeing her as a person and
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started seeing her as a role she played
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The entries got more detailed, more
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intimate. She wrote about hotels I'd
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unknowingly paid for with our joint
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credit card. Lies she'd told me that I'd
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believed without question. Tom so
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Sometimes I feel guilty about how easy
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it is to deceive him. But then I
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remember how he looked right through me
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at Janet's wedding last month and the
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The affair lasted 18 months. 18 months
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of detailed entries about their
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relationship, their dreams of leaving
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their spouses and starting over. Then
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abruptly, it ended. It's over. Vincent's
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wife found out. She's threatening to
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tell Tom if Vincent doesn't end it
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immediately. He chose her. Of course, he
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chose her. They have children together,
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a real life. What did I expect? I hate
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him. I hate her. I hate Tom for being so
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oblivious. I hate myself for thinking I
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could have something more than this. The
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final entry was dated 6 months ago. Tom
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bought me flowers today. Daisy's from
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the grocery store. He said he thought I
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seemed sad lately and wanted to cheer me
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up. I started crying right there in the
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kitchen. He held me and said everything
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would be okay. He has no idea what he's
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forgiving me for. I love him. I've
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always loved him, but I don't know if I
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can live with what I've done. Every time
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he's kind to me, it's like a knife in my
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chest. I closed the journal and sat in
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the silence of our attic, surrounded by
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boxes of memories from a marriage I'd
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thought I understood.
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When I came downstairs, Myra was in the
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kitchen, still in her scrubs, heating up
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leftover soup. "How'd it go up there?"
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she asked without looking up. "Fine," I
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said. "Just a lot of water damage."
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That night, I lay awake listening to her
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breathe. the journal a leen weight on my
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chest. For 3 days, I carried the weight
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of what I'd read, watching her, looking
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for signs of the woman in the journal.
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I was angry about the affair, but I was
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angrier about the truth in those pages,
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about the husband I'd become without
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realizing it. On the fourth day, I
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called my lawyer, not for divorce
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papers, but for something else. I need
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to understand my options, I told him. If
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someone were to hypothetically access
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private documents during a legal
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proceeding, what would the implications
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He was careful with his words. That
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depends on the nature of the documents
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and how they were obtained.
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Are we talking about a divorce case?
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Maybe, I said. I'm not sure yet. That
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evening, I did something I should have
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done years ago. I asked Myra to sit with
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me, just the two of us. I want to talk,
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I said. We talked for 3 hours, not about
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the affair, but about everything else.
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How we'd stopped seeing each other. How
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our marriage had become a series of
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habits instead of choices. I feel like I
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disappeared somewhere, she said quietly.
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Like I became this person I don't
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I know, I said. I think I did, too. I
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wanted to say we could fix it, but the
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journal was upstairs and I still didn't
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know if she would ever tell me the
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truth. I don't know, I said, but I think
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we have to try. The next morning, I
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called my lawyer again. I want to file
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for divorce, I said. I want to use the
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journal as evidence legally and above
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board. Are you prepared for how ugly
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this might get? He asked.
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I thought about the woman in the
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journal, the one who'd felt invisible in
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our marriage. Yes, I said, "I'm
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The divorce proceedings started quietly.
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Myra was shocked when she was served the
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papers, but she didn't fight it. She
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hired a lawyer, a sharp woman named
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During the discovery phase, I submitted
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the journal as evidence. I'd made
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copies, of course, but I also submitted
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the original authenticated by a
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The court date was set for a Tuesday
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morning in November. I'd been dreading
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it for months, but as I sat there
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waiting for the judge, I felt oddly
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calm. This was it, the moment when
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everything would come out. My lawyer
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started with the basic facts. 23 years
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of marriage, no children, joint assets
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to be divided. And then, your honor, he
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said, the plaintiff has evidence that
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the defendant engaged in an
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extrammarital affair that lasted 18
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This evidence comes from the defendant's
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own diary found in the marital home,
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Patricia objected. My lawyer countered.
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The judge allowed it. He opened the
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journal and began to read. I can't keep
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pretending anymore. When I'm with
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Vincent, I feel like myself again, real.
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Not like the woman who makes dinner and
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asks about insurance claims. I watched
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Myra's face as her own words filled the
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courtroom. She was crying silently. My
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Tom asked me about my day again. He does
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that every evening like clockwork. I
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used to think it was sweet. Now I
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realize he's not really listening. He's
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just performing marriage. That's when I
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saw it. The exact moment Patricia
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realized what she was dealing with. This
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wasn't just evidence of an affair. It
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was evidence of something much more
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complicated. A marriage that had died
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long before the affair began. My lawyer
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read entry after entry, the clinical
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details of the affair, but also the
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emotional reality of our marriage. The
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way we'd stopped seeing each other, the
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way I'd become a man who went through
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the motions of being a husband without
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actually being present.
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Tom, so trusting. Sometimes I feel
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guilty about how easy it is to deceive
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him. But then I remember how he looked
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right through me at Janet's wedding last
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month and the guilt disappears.
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I remembered that wedding. I remembered
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standing next to Myra during the
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ceremony, thinking about work, about a
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claim I needed to process on Monday. I'd
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missed the entire thing, including the
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fact that my wife was falling apart
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right beside me. My lawyer reached the
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end of the journal. He read the final
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entry about the daisies, the tears, the
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realization that she'd always loved me
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but couldn't live with what she'd done.
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When he finished, the courtroom was
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"Mrs. Chen," the judge said, "do you
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have any response to this evidence."
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Myra stood slowly. "Your honor," she
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said. "I I don't dispute any of it.
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Every word is true." Patricia, her
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lawyer, stood up to interrupt, but Myra
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was already talking. I had an affair. I
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lied to my husband for 18 months. I
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documented it all in that journal
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because because I needed to make sense
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of what I was doing. Tom, I'm sorry. I'm
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so sorry. Not just for the affair, but
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for all of it. For the way I wrote about
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you. For the way I made you feel like
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you were the problem when we were both
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just lost. Patricia tried again to stop
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her. But Myra pulled away.
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I need to say this, your honor. I don't
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want to fight this divorce. I don't want
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to drag this out. I just want to say
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that Tom isn't the man I wrote about in
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that journal. He's better than that. He
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was always better than that. She was
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crying openly now. I wrote those things
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because I needed to justify what I was
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doing. I needed to make him the villain
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so I could be the victim. But he wasn't
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the villain. He was just a man who
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worked hard and loved me the best way he
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knew how. Patricia just packed her
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briefcase and left the courtroom. The
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judge called a recess anyway. In the
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hallway, Myra approached me. "I know
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you'll probably never forgive me," she
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said. "And I understand that, but I need
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you to know. Finding someone else wasn't
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the solution. It was just a symptom of
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something that was already broken." "I
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know," I said. I read the journal, too.
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"Then why did you write those things?" I
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asked. because I needed to blame
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someone," she said. "And you were there.
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You were safe to blame because you'd
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never fight back. You just took it like
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2 weeks later, the divorce was
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finalized. Myra moved out of the house
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we'd shared for 23 years. She took very
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little, just her clothes and some
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personal items. I kept the journal, not
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out of spite, but because it felt like
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the most honest thing either of us had
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A year later, I ran into Vincent at a
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coffee shop downtown. He was with his
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wife and daughters, a picture of a happy
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family. He saw me and went pale. Tom, I
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don't. Just don't, I said. He nodded and
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turned away. As I was leaving, I heard
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his wife ask, "Who was that?" "Nobody,"
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he said. "Just someone I used to know. I
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never saw Myra again. I heard through
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mutual friends that she had left nursing
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and gone back to school for counseling.
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I hoped she was happy. The roof got
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fixed. The house looks good as new. But
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sometimes late at night, I still hear
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the echo of her words. Tom's so
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trusting. Sometimes I feel guilty about
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how easy it is to deceive him. She was
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right. I was trusting. Maybe too
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trusting. But I've learned that trust
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isn't the same as being present. And
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being present isn't the same as being
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I still have the journal. Sometimes I
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read it not to torture myself, but to
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remember to remember the woman who felt
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invisible in our marriage, to remember
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the husband who made her feel that way.
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Because the truth is, we were both right
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and we were both wrong. And sometimes
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that's all there is to say about 23
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years of a life shared. The roof doesn't
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leak anymore, but the house still feels
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empty. And maybe that's okay. Maybe
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that's exactly what it should feel