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A significant, painful part of me felt that that chapter of my life remained unfinished, like I was reading a book with the last pages pulled out, even though we had separated more graciously and cleanly than most divorcing couples manage to do.
The funeral that completely upended everything I believed to be true
Troy unexpectedly passed away from a severe heart attack two years after our divorce was finalized.
From the hospital, our daughter Sarah contacted me, barely able to speak as her voice broke into cries.
After traveling three hours from Boston, our son Michael arrived too late to bid farewell.
Despite my genuine doubts about my entitlement to attend as his ex-wife, I attended the funeral. Sarah, however, insisted that I attend, saying that despite everything, her father would have wanted me to be there.
There were a ton of people in the church. There were plenty of cars in the parking lot. Troy’s coworkers, old neighbors from homes we’d lived in decades ago, and pals from high school approached me with sorrowful grins and said kind things like, “He was such a good man,” and “We’re so sorry for your loss.” These were people I hadn’t seen in years.
I felt like a total phony as I nodded and thanked them, acting as though I was grieving for a man I wasn’t sure I had ever truly known.
Then, Frank, Troy’s eighty-one-year-old father, staggered over to me during the church hall reception. He was obviously intoxicated and smelled strongly of alcohol even from a few feet away.
His eyes were crimson and bloodshot. He spoke in a thick, slurred voice. His normally tidy appearance was messy, with his shirt half-untucked and his tie untied.
I could smell the strong, biting scent of alcohol on his breath as he drew in close to me.
With a slightly drunken voice and an accusing tone, he replied, “You don’t even know what he did for you, do you?”
Uncomfortable with his proximity, I reflexively took a step back. “Frank, this isn’t the right time or place to have this conversation.”
He gave a forceful shake of his head, nearly stumbling and needing to hold onto my arm for support.
Do you really believe that I am unaware of the money? Concerning the hotel room? The same dang room each and every time? He chuckled briefly, bitterly, and without any sense of humor.
“God help him, he believed he was being so astute and cautious.”
With his heavy hold on my arm as if he required me to keep him straight and stabilize him, he rocked slightly where he stood.
“Frank, what are you saying?” My heart began to race as I asked. “What are you discussing?”
“That he made his decision, and it cost him everything,” Frank remarked, tears welling up in his eyes. “He told me everything in the hospital at the very end. If you ever learned the truth, it had to be after, he said. once he was gone and it was no longer able to harm you.
That’s when my daughter Sarah showed there, her hand lightly resting on my elbow. “Mom? Are things going well over here?
Frank pulled his arm away from mine and straightened up with obvious effort.
“There are things that aren’t affairs,” he added, stepping back from me and pointing at me with an unsteady finger. Additionally, some lies are not motivated by desire for another person.
At that moment, my son Michael was there, taking Frank’s arm and leading him away from the other mourners who were beginning to gawk at us and toward a chair in the corner.
People were observing us and whispering. But Frank’s garbled remarks kept repeating in my mind as I stood there motionless in the center of that church hall.
non-affective things.
lies that are not motivated by desire for another person.
What was meant by that? What did he want me to know?
The letter that provided a comprehensive explanation
Once the funeral reception was over and everyone had left for home, the house felt incredibly quiet.
I replayed Frank’s inebriated remarks repeatedly while sitting by myself at my kitchen table, the same table where I had previously arranged those hotel receipts like proof of betrayal.
I recalled Troy’s expression when I approached him that evening two years prior; he appeared almost relieved that the secret had finally been revealed, despite his continued refusal to say the truth aloud.
What if, in spite of his inebriation, Frank had been telling the truth? What if the purpose of those hotel rooms was to conceal something else totally instead of another woman? Concerning concealing himself?
I stayed there for hours, going over every potential explanation in my head.
A courier envelope showed up at my door three days after the burial.
On the front label, my name was properly typed. Without even bothering to enter first, I opened it while standing in the corridor, still wearing my coat.