In that moment, I felt something change without knowing what it was yet.
"Nathan," I said softly, "are you alright?"
He didn't answer.
When I came back into the bedroom, I knew right away something wasn't right.
He walked past me slowly and stopped at the nightstand. He opened the top drawer, reached inside, and pulled out a small key, holding it for a moment as though it carried more weight than it should.
The way Nathan's hand lingered there made my breath catch without warning.
He unlocked the bottom drawer and opened it. Then turned to face me.
"Before we go any further, you need to know the whole truth, Matilda. I'm ready to confess what I've done."
That didn't sit right with me. My mind went somewhere I didn't want it to go, searching for answers that didn't feel safe.
That didn't sit right with me.
Nathan took out an envelope and handed it to me.
My name was written across it: "Mattie."
My fingers trembled as I opened it, the paper catching slightly as I unfolded it.
"This isn't about something I did," Nathan said. "It's about something that's been wrong in the way I love."
I didn't understand that as I read the first line:
"I don't know how I'll survive losing you too, Mattie…"
The words didn't land like love. They didn't feel comforting.
They felt final.
"It's about something that's been wrong in the way I love."
I looked up at Nathan.
"You wrote this… about me?"
He didn't answer. And that silence told me everything I needed to know.
My heart ached. Not because of what Nathan wrote, but because of how certain he sounded, as though he had already lived through losing me.
I realized I had stepped into a love that had already imagined its own ending.
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't demand an explanation. Instead, I just stepped back because I needed space to breathe.
"I need a minute."
I grabbed my coat and walked out before Nathan could respond.
I realized I had stepped into a love that had already imagined its own ending.
***
The cool air brushed past me, tugging slightly at my hair and loosening the careful way I'd pinned it up earlier that evening. I kept walking without direction, just putting distance between myself and what I had just read.
And the only thought that stayed with me was one I couldn't shake.
Nathan was already preparing to lose me… And I had just promised to build a life with him. Why would he do this?
I found myself at the church without planning to go there.
It was empty. But everything inside me screamed.
Why would he do this?
I sat in the front pew and opened the letter again, this time reading more than I had before:
"I tried to be stronger the second time… but I wasn't.
I thought I would have had more time.
I don't think I'll survive losing you too, Mattie."
I lowered the paper slowly, my hands no longer shaking, just heavy.
It wasn't fear of something happening to me. It was the realization that my husband was already living like it would.
How do you love someone who is already grieving you before you've even had the chance to stay?
"I thought I would have had more time."
"I can't be someone you're already grieving, Nathan," I whispered.
And for the first time that night, I thought about leaving for good. Then a voice broke through my thoughts.
"I figured you'd come here."
I turned.
Nathan stood a few steps away, not rushing toward me, not reaching out, just standing there like he understood this moment wasn't his to control.
I thought about leaving for good.
"Did you write letters for them too?" I asked. "Your wives... before?"
He nodded. "Yes."
"After they were gone?"
"Yes, Mattie."
I swallowed, terrified. "So, I'm next?"
The answer I was afraid of wasn't in what Nathan said, but in what he had already shown me.
"Come with me," he replied.
"So, I'm next?"
I hesitated.
"If you still want to leave after… I won't stop you, Mattie."
That mattered more than I expected. So I accompanied him.
***
We drove in silence, the road stretching out in front of us while everything between us stayed unspoken.
I realized I wasn't accompanying Nathan for comfort; I was accompanying him because I needed to understand what I had walked into.
We stopped at a cemetery.
