While cleaning out the garage, I found an old candy box with a note inside: “Thanks for sharing your husband with me.” My heart dropped. The handwriting was unfamiliar—feminine, precise—and I knew it wasn’t a joke.
I left the note on the kitchen counter. When my husband, Lyle, saw it, his face fell. He admitted he’d had a fling years ago on a business trip—said it “only happened twice.” He kept the note, he claimed, to remind himself of what he almost lost. That didn’t sit right. He didn’t lose anything. He made a choice—and kept a souvenir.
Days passed in silence. I reached out to my best friend, who admitted she’d always sensed something off. Eventually, I found Corinne’s number on a crumpled receipt in the same box. When I called, she was stunned. Said she didn’t know he was married and ended it as soon as she found out. I believed her.
Lyle and I tried to work through it. Therapy, late-night talks, even holding each other like we were trying not to drown. But the truth had changed us. I couldn’t un-know what I now knew.
That fall, I moved out. The place was small and rough around the edges, but it was mine. I filled it with second-hand furniture, loud soul music, and slowly—myself.
A year later, I ran into Lyle. We chatted briefly. Before we said goodbye, he said, “I think about that note every day.”
I smiled. “I don’t.”
And I meant it—not out of bitterness, but because I’d finally let it go.
What once broke me… set me free.
