“He told me he tried to say something a hundred times. He said his mother’s heart couldn’t take it. He said his father made him swear on his deathbed to keep it quiet.”
I laughed, and the sound was ugly, cracked and hollow.
“Since before you married him.”
“So he kept the promise to a dead man instead of telling his own wife. Fifteen years, Grace. Fifteen years of my life, and he couldn’t trust me with one truth.”
Grace lowered her head.
“He was ashamed. Not of me. Of them. Of what his father did to my mother. He said if his mother ever learned the truth, it would kill her.”
“His mother has been gone for years now, Grace. He still said nothing.”
“He was ashamed.”
She had no answer to that.
I opened one of the envelopes.
It was David’s handwriting, addressed to Grace, dated the week he was diagnosed.
