“After hurricane Isabel… we lost everything,” she said. “Your wife brought us here. She gave us a home. She paid for my husband’s cancer treatment. She cared for us like family.”
My legs nearly buckled.
Julie had been supporting a family… secretly? For fifteen years?
But the next revelation struck even harder.
“Señor,” she whispered, “she fought cancer too. Three years. She stayed here for treatment.”
The room spun. Julie had been battling cancer—without telling me.
And my children had insisted the house was “useless.”
I felt the ground disappear beneath me. Julie had fought cancer for three years… while I sat in my retirement chair reading mystery novels, thinking she was simply enjoying her retreats. Maria—the woman before me—had comforted my wife through chemotherapy, nausea, and fear.
“Why didn’t she tell me?” I whispered.
Maria placed her hand over mine. “She said she didn’t want to make you sad. She said you already carried too much.”
My throat tightened. Had I really been so distant that my wife chose to suffer alone?
Maria led me to a back bedroom—Julie’s room. Lavender walls, an ocean view, a desk overflowing with books. On the nightstand was a photo of me from our honeymoon. Beside it, a picture of Maria’s three children building a sandcastle with Julie.
“This was her safe place,” Maria said. “Her… secret garden.”
Toen haalde ze een houten doos tevoorschijn die ik meteen herkende. Ik had het decennia eerder voor Julie gemaakt. Binnenin zaten tientallen brieven—aan mij gericht—maar nooit verzonden.
Mijn handen trilden toen ik de eerste opende.
