As he drew closer, my heart began to hammer against my ribs. There was something about his demeanor—the solemn set of his jaw, the hesitation in his step—that suggested he was not a mere courier. He looked like a man burdened with a heavy task.
I stood up, drawn to the window by a magnetic pull of dread and curiosity. Who was he? Was he a lawyer sent by Robert to preemptively strike? Was he a relative of the “other woman”? Or was he something else entirely? As he reached the door and raised his hand to knock, I realized that the email had only been the first tremor of the earthquake. The letter he carried contained the final, missing pieces of the puzzle, the context that would explain why now, and how deep the rot truly went. Joyce’s words echoed in my mind—this is just the beginning—and as I moved to open the door, I understood that the true horror of Robert’s deception was not just in what he had done, but in what was still left to be revealed. The door creaked open, and the stranger met my eyes, and in that silence, I knew that the past forty years were about to be buried forever.
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