Seven Years into Marriage, I Found a Love Letter and a Farewell Note My Husband Left for His First Love–Turns Out, I Was the Fool.
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After seven years of marriage, I stumbled upon two letters my husband had written to his first love.
One was a love letter. The other was a will.
“In our next life, I’ll make you my wife.”
“My inheritance will go to you. Even after I’m gone, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
It turns out, I’ve been the fool all along.
I didn’t want to stand in the way of their true love, so I booked a plane ticket that very night.
The next morning, I ironed his shirt for the last time and saw him off to work.
At the door, he hesitated, waiting for the goodbye kiss I didn’t give him.
“Anna, don’t be mad. The lipstick on my collar last night–it’s not what you think.”
“It was just a friend. I was just giving her a ride home. Don’t overthink it.”
I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I simply said, “Oh, I don’t mind.”
Because I’d already lined up a date with someone else. I was ready to move on.
But that’s when he started to panic.
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As I watched Oliver step out the door, he lingered in the entryway, hesitating, as though he were waiting for something.
I kept my tone neutral, indifferent.
“You’ve got your briefcase, your watch… what else are you waiting for?”
His jaw tightened, and his brows furrowed in restrained irritation. He said nothing, but I knew.
Seven years of marriage, plus the three years I spent chasing him before that ten years of knowing this man inside and out. I could read him like an open book.
He wanted a goodbye kiss.
Because I hadn’t leaned in like I usually did, hadn’t whispered “I love you” with a peck on the cheek, he could sense something was off.
“Anna, are you still mad? Be reasonable,” he said, his voice calm but laced with subtle condescension. “The lipstick stain was a misunderstanding.”
“That woman wasn’t feeling well. I gave her a ride home, and the mark must’ve gotten there somehow. It’s not what you think.”
“I explained this to you all night. You’ve got all the facts–can’t you be logical about it?”
Oliver was a lawyer, and his words were always sharp, polished, airtight. Even the prenuptial agreement he wrote for us had been meticulously fair–no bias, no loopholes.
Last night, I had screamed and cried over his suit jacket, the one I had ironed so carefully that morning. My fingers still bore the small burns. from pressing out every wrinkle. But by the time he brought it back, it smelled of someone else’s perfume and bore a faint, familiar lipstick stain.
The color and scent were unmistakable: his first love’s signature shade.
When we first started dating, Oliver used to buy me that same brand of lipstick and perfume. I thought it was sweet, a sign of his
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thoughtfulness. Even though I didn’t like the scent, I wore it for him. It wasn’t until later that I realized the gifts weren’t for me at all–they were
hand–me–downs, tokens meant for someone else.
At the door, he tried again. “Do you believe me now? Can we move past this?”
I glanced at my empty hand, my ring finger bare. I had taken off my wedding band last night. There was still an angry red mark where it had pressed into my skin for years.
Would he notice? Would he care?
If he said something–anything–to try to hold onto me, maybe I’d soften. Maybe I’d forgive him one more time.
But Olive un‘
y!
