**Diary Entry – 12th March**
Sixty years of marriage, and only now do I realise my entire life was built on deceit. The woman I cherished, the life we shared—none of it was what I believed.
Margaret and I wed when I was twenty-two, and she was twenty, fresh-faced and full of promise. For six decades, she was my world. When she passed unexpectedly from a heart attack, the grief was unbearable. But the truth I uncovered later? That was worse.
We’d longed for children, but in our late twenties, doctors delivered the devastating news: Margaret couldn’t conceive. In those days, there was no IVF, no miracle cure. I suggested adoption, but she recoiled. “I could never love another woman’s child,” she’d said. It was the closest we ever came to a real argument. Heartbroken, I yielded. I adored her too much to push.
Instead, I doted on my younger brother’s children. Oddly, Margaret avoided them. Said it pained her, reminded her of what she couldn’t have. So I visited alone. When she died, it was my brother and his sons who steadied me.
Six months later, while sorting her belongings, I found a small box tucked in her wardrobe. Inside were keepsakes—a pressed rose from her bridal bouquet, faded holiday snaps, anniversaries marked by trinkets. Then, a letter.
My nephew chuckled. “Bet that’s an old love note, Uncle Henry.” But I’d never written Margaret one—we were never apart. The envelope bore my name, the letter inside creased from handling. The signature froze me. *Eleanor Whitmore.*
Eleanor. My first love. We’d been inseparable until I caught her kissing my closest friend. Hurt and betrayed, I turned to Margaret. At the time, I thought it fate’s kindness. Now, I’m not so sure.
My nephew read it aloud as my eyes faltered. “Dear Henry,” she’d written fifty-five years ago, “This will shock you. I should’ve spoken sooner, but I was afraid. I’ve carried a secret I swore to keep—but I can’t any longer. I had a child, Henry. *Our* child.”
She’d been terrified to tell me, so she confided in my friend—the same one I’d seen her kiss. When I stormed out, she couldn’t explain. By the time she worked up the courage, I’d married Margaret.
“I chose to respect your new life,” she wrote. “I raised our boy alone. But now I’m dying. Cancer. Little William is six, sweet and bright. I beg you—could you and Margaret take him? He’ll be sent to an orphanage otherwise. Please call me.”
Tears blurred my vision. *A son.* And Margaret had hidden this. The timing matched when we’d discussed adoption—her sharp dismissal of “another woman’s child” took on a sickening meaning. Had it been jealousy? Or did she never want children at all?
William would be in his sixties now. Had he grown up thinking I’d abandoned him? My nephew scoured records, tracing a William Whitmore. When we met, the resemblance was uncanny—Eleanor’s features, but my eyes, my smile. The connection was instant.
He brought his eldest, Thomas. Over tea, the years crumbled away. Now, I have grandchildren. Great-grandchildren, even. My youngest, Grace, tells me her baby due in autumn will carry my name: Henry.
All those lost years. But life, it seems, saved the best for last.
