I thought those sixty years had allowed me to know Irene inside and out. After her death, I discovered she had kept a secret for nearly half of our marriage. The deeper I dug, the more I realized the truth wouldn’t just change my image of her; it would force me to determine what our life had truly been like.
Three days after Irene’s funeral, a stranger appeared on my doorstep and told me that I had never been her husband.
I was 86 years old, I was barefoot and I was holding a cup of coffee that I had prepared for a woman who would not return.
» What did you say ? »
The man who had introduced himself as Mr. Geller slipped the envelope through his hands.
« Irene asked me to give this to you after her death. »
« Irene didn’t have a lawyer. »
Three days after Irene’s funeral.
« Yes, she did have one. She came to see me for the first time a few years ago. »
It troubled me. Irene had told me everything. Or at least, that’s what I had always believed.
« What’s going on? Why did my wife hire you? »
Mr. Geller handed me the envelope.
« Sir, I’m sorry, but Irene gave me very specific instructions: I was only to give you this envelope after her death. »
I didn’t take it.
« Why did my wife hire you? »
« What are you hiding from me? »
He hesitated.
Then he added: « Your wife? Sir, you and Irene were never actually married. Didn’t you know that? Just open the envelope, and you’ll understand everything. »
For a second, I really thought grief had clouded my hearing.
« What are you hiding from me? »
Irene and I had celebrated our 60th wedding anniversary just a few months earlier. We had raised three children and spoiled five grandchildren. I had held her hand when she passed away peacefully.
« Give me the envelope. »
“Robert…”
« Give it to me. »
He gave it to me.
« Give me the envelope. »
My name was written on the front, in Irene’s handwriting.
It almost overwhelmed me. I had been waiting for this writing during my time abroad.
I tore open the envelope.
The first line read:
« Robert, there’s something I should have told you 46 years ago. »
I read it, then I watched Mr. Geller.
Then I turned my gaze back to Irene’s letter.
Robert, there’s something I should have told you 46 years ago.
The following line caught my attention.
I was married before I met you.
I sat down on the bench near the door.
» Bride ? »
Mr. Geller remained silent.
I looked at him. « Were you aware of this? »
I was married before I met you.
« I knew what Irene had told me. The rest is in the letter. »
I continued reading.
Irene married her high school sweetheart when she was 18. Their marriage only lasted a few months.
They argued, separated, signed the papers and went their separate ways.
But the final divorce decree was never issued.
Irene thought it was over.
« I knew what Irene had told me. »
Then she met me.
I remembered that without Irene’s help.
I first saw her at university. She was laughing with a friend three rows in front of me, and I looked at her long enough for her to notice.
A few months later, when I finally asked her out, she smiled and said, « You took your time. »
« It took me months to find the courage. »
And then she met me.
« It took you months to stop staring at me. »
I laughed when I thought about it.
Shortly afterwards, I joined the army.
When I learned that I was going to Vietnam, I told Irene that I didn’t want to leave without marrying her.
She looked at me and said, « Are you asking me this because you’re scared? »
« I’m asking you this because I love you. »
« It took you months to stop staring at me. »
« Correct answer. »
***
A week later, she was wearing a white summer dress dotted with tiny light blue flowers, and afterwards we ate hamburgers at a roadside snack bar, because that was all we could afford.
A few days later, I left.
Her letters followed me abroad.
About a year later, I went home to find her, for good.
She wore a white summer dress dotted with tiny light blue flowers.
We built everything from there: three children, five grandchildren, a whole life.
On our wedding anniversary, Irene shook my hand under the table and whispered, « Not bad for a wedding in a cheap little restaurant. »
***
Two months later, I held that same hand as it faded away.
I reread the letter.
When I married you, I was convinced with all my heart that I was free to do so.
« Not bad for a wedding in a small, inexpensive restaurant. »
I could breathe again.
Then I read the next line.
Fourteen years later, I realized that this was not the case.
I folded the page.
Mr. Geller took a step towards me.
« Robert? »
I was able to breathe again.
I got up.
» Not now. »
« There are other documents that Irene wanted you to have. »
« I can’t read anything else while you stay here. »
He nodded and placed his card on the table.
« If you want the rest, call me. »
« I can’t read anything else while you stay here. »
After he left, I stared at the closed door.
Then I looked at Irene’s handwriting again.
« My God, Irene, who were you? You lied to me all these years? How could you do this to me? »
My voice echoed throughout the house.
Irene had always answered me.
This time, she couldn’t.
« My God, Irene, who were you? »
***
I called my daughter, Penelope, because I couldn’t stand by myself with what I’d just read. She was our youngest and lived the closest. Like Irene, she could hear « I’m fine » and know exactly when she wasn’t.
She answered on the second ring.
» Dad ? »
« Penny, I need you to come to my house. »
His voice changed immediately. « What happened? »
» Dad ? »
I looked at Irene’s letter that I had in my hand.
« Your mother left me something. »
» What is this ? »
« I don’t know yet. That’s the problem. Please, darling. »
» I’m coming. »
» What is this ? »
***
Twenty minutes later, Penelope came in, her handbag in hand. She glanced at me and closed the door behind her.
« Dad, tell me. »
I held up the letter.
« Your mother was married before me. »
Penelope stared at me. « Before you? »
« Dad, tell me. »
« At 18. »
« Did you know that? »
« No. I had no idea. »
She sat down next to me.
I reopened the letter.
« She thought the divorce was final. Fourteen years after our marriage, she discovered that it wasn’t. »
« No. I had no idea. »
Penelope’s face tightened.
« So, when you married Mom… »
« She was still legally married to someone else. »
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I read the next line.
I contacted him.
« So, when you married Mom… »
I felt nauseous.
« She’s the one who found it. »
Penelope leaned towards me. « She’ll explain why? »
I continued reading.
Irene explained that the man had been just as shocked. He too believed that the divorce had been finalized.
« Why didn’t she tell me that back then? »
« She explains why? »
Penelope shook her head. « Perhaps the answer is further down. »
Towards the end, Irene had written:
The rest is in the box where I put the papers I was most afraid you would find.
I got up so quickly that Penelope followed me.
« Do you know which company she’s talking about? »
« I think so, yes. »
« Perhaps the answer lies below. »
Upstairs, I opened the closet in our bedroom and looked behind the usual papers.
My hand hit a cardboard box.
I took out a small box that I had never seen before.
Penelope stayed by my side while I opened it.
Inside, there was another envelope with my name on it.
The first document confirmed Irene’s story.
My hand hit a cardboard box.
The second showed that her first marriage had never been legally dissolved when she married me.
Penelope touched my arm.
« There’s another page. »
I unfolded it.
The date at the top of the page made my heart ache.
Forty-six years ago.
« There’s another page. »
It was a short letter from the man Irene had married at 18.
Irene,
I had no idea either. Tell me what I need to sign so we can finally sort this out.
Penelope was watching me. « Does that help? »
» A little. »
There was nothing romantic in that letter, no hidden affection, nothing to suggest that Irene was leading a double life behind my back.
I had no idea either.
Then I unfolded the last document.
My relief lasted about ten seconds.
« What is it? » asked Penelope.
« It says their marriage was legally dissolved 46 years ago. »
She approached. « So after that, Mom was free to marry you? »
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