I might have tried to do too much.

You knew that about me.”

I looked at his name.

“But you could have let me learn how to decide.”

For a while, I said nothing.

The cemetery did not provide the answer I had wanted in the bedroom, the night I asked whether he had cheated.

It did not explain his final thoughts or tell me which parts of his secrecy he regretted most.

The explanation I had came from records, people who knew the history, and the letter in his own handwriting.