I decided to sell my wife’s car five months after she passed. But when I opened the glovebox to clean it… I found a secret that took my breath away…

She’d never said those things to me out loud. She kept them in this book. She also wrote about the quiet moments between us that I had completely forgotten or just hadn’t noticed.

After our first miscarriage, I’d scrolled on my phone during most of the meal. She wrote how she wanted to talk, but decided to stay silent because I looked tired. Reading that broke something inside me.

It was like I was learning about a version of our marriage I hadn’t even realized existed. Like I’d lived only half of it, and she’d carried the other half on her own. I skipped around at first.

Some entries felt like daily reflections, nothing too serious. But then I landed on a section she wrote after our second miscarriage. That entry stopped me cold.

She wrote that after the diagnosis, she felt broken both physically and emotionally. She said we started drifting during this time. That while I’d buried myself in work, she poured herself into her business just to stay busy.

She said we weren’t really us anymore, just two people carrying pain differently. And in that space, she reconnected with someone from her past, her ex. I would come to find out that he was also married at the time.

At first, she said he was just someone to talk to, someone who understood. And then it turned into something else. She wrote about the times they met up, the long conversations that turned into confessions, then touches, then more.

She said being with him brought back who she used to be before she felt like a shadow of herself. Reading that, there’s no way to explain it. I kept reading even though every part of me wanted to slam the book shut and forget it existed.

And the betrayal didn’t end there. She wrote that even after her cancer diagnosis, even when we were going to the hospital together and I was cutting back on work just to sit beside her, she was still seeing him, still texting him, still letting him visit. That last part knocked the wind out of me because now I remembered seeing him in the hospital one afternoon.

He brought her flowers and stayed for about 10 minutes. I thought he was just an old friend checking in. I even shook his hand.

The journal made that moment feel like a bad joke. She kept writing in the journal until her illness made it too hard. The last few entries were short and scattered…