I went back in.
Robert was lying very still, looking at the ceiling. He looked more troubled than I’d seen him in his whole illness. More troubled than when the doctors told him the cancer had spread to his liver.
He reached for my hand.Study Anatomy
“Margaret,” he said, “if you ever have questions about my work, remember Evelyn Carter’s name.”
“Your work? Robert, you sell insurance.”
He closed his eyes.
“Just remember her name,” he said.
That night, he gave me the envelope.
He died three days later.
At the time, I thought he was worried about unfinished business. Insurance policies. Clients he hadn’t gotten to. Robert hated leaving anything undone.
I never told anyone about Evelyn Carter. Not my children. Not my sister-in-law. Not the priest.
Because a small, ugly part of me had always wondered.
A woman my husband never mentioned. A closed door. Tears. A silver briefcase.Support Causes
