Inside the box was his journal.
My hands trembled as I opened it. Page after page revealed a man unraveling. He wrote about ambition turning hollow. About chasing validation and finding emptiness instead. About realizing too late that the life he abandoned had been the only one that felt real.
“The worst decision I ever made,” one entry read. “Losing her wasn’t freedom. It was loss.”
The younger woman admitted she had read the journal months before. That was when she understood she had never truly been loved — only used as a mirror for his ego. She left soon after, unable to compete with a ghost of devotion she could never replace.
She said she had once considered burning the journal out of anger. But after he died, she realized the truth belonged to me.
I didn’t know whether to resent her presence or feel gratitude for her honesty. Both emotions tangled inside me.
Then came the final revelation.
At the reading of the will, his attorney cleared his throat and unfolded the document. My name filled every line. The house. The investments. The accounts. Everything.
“He was very clear,” the lawyer said gently. “He wanted you to have it all. He believed you were the only person who understood him fully.”
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