I Walked Into My Husband’s Hospital Room And Saw A Woman Holding His Hand. He Said She Was His Sister, But He Is An Only Child. What Should I Do?

The Strength to Forgive

Six months later Jennifer called me with news. She’d met Sophie and Marcus for coffee.

It had been awkward at first, she said. Then they’d started talking and discovered they had more in common than just their father’s betrayal.

They were all going to dinner next week. She asked if I would like to come.

I went. I met Richard’s other children.

These were young people who carried pieces of the man I’d once loved in their faces and their gestures. Marcus had his father’s logical mind.

Sophie had his love of music. But they were not their father; they were themselves.

They were whole people trying to build something new out of the ruins they’d inherited. We talked for hours that night about growing up.

We talked about the little inconsistencies they’d noticed but explained away. We talked about the weekends their father disappeared and the excuses he’d given.

We talked about the parallel lives he’d maintained with such careful precision. At the end of the evening, Sophie hugged me.

“I’m glad we did this,” she said.

“So am I,” I said.

And I meant it. Richard called me once after that.

It was late at night, and I almost didn’t answer. Something made me pick up.

“Margaret,” his voice sounded old and tired.

“I know you don’t want to hear from me.” Richard said.

“Then why are you calling?” I asked.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry for everything. I know it doesn’t change anything, but I wanted you to know.” Richard said.

I thought about all the things I could say. I thought about all the anger I still carried even after all these months.

I thought about all the questions that would never have satisfactory answers. Instead, I said,

“I forgive you.”

The silence on the other end was long.

“You do?” he asked.

“I do. Not for you, Richard, for me.” I answered.

“I’m not going to carry this around anymore. What you did was wrong.” I said.

“The way you divided your life, the way you lied to all of us, and the way you thought you could have everything without consequence—all of it was wrong.” I told him.

“But I’m done letting it define me. Margaret.” I said.

“Goodbye, Richard.” I said.

I hung up and I blocked his number. That was three years ago now.

I’m 67 years old. I paint every morning and volunteer every afternoon.

I have dinner with Jennifer every week and coffee with Marcus and Sophie every month. We’re building something new, the four of us.

It is something that has nothing to do with Richard and everything to do with choosing family rather than inheriting it. I date sometimes, though I’m in no hurry.

I’ve learned that I like my own company. I like waking up in my own space, painting in my own light, and living by my own schedule.

Sometimes people ask me if I regret the years I spent with Richard. They ask if I wish I’d known sooner or if I’m angry about the time that was stolen.

I tell them the truth. Those years were real to me even if they weren’t real to him.

Jennifer is real. The life I built is real.

The woman I’ve become is real too. She is strong enough to walk away, strong enough to forgive, and strong enough to start over at 64.

The betrayal doesn’t define me. The survival does.

I wake up every morning in my condominium overlooking the river. I make my coffee exactly the way I like it, strong and black.

I stand at my window and watch the sun rise over the water, painting the sky in shades I’ll try to capture on canvas later. And I smile.

This life, this simple, honest, whole life, belongs entirely to me.