For two years after the divorce, I convinced myself I had done the right thing. The betrayal still stung whenever I thought about the missing money, the hotel receipts, and Troy’s refusal to explain anything. We barely spoke except through our children, and when I heard about his sudden heart attack, I felt more sadness for what we had lost than for the man I thought I knew.
At the funeral, his eighty-one-year-old father staggered toward me, smelling of whiskey. Grabbing my arm, he whispered, “You don’t even know what he did for you, do you?” Before I could answer, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick sealed envelope with my name written across the front. My hands trembled as I slowly broke the seal…
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