On a sunny Sunday morning, I went into the bathroom and noticed a yellow note on the mirror.

Christopher’s handwriting.

For a moment, I stood where I had stood on so many mornings during our first seven years.

A small piece of paper, a familiar hand, a message left before he came downstairs.

The notes had been real before the discovery.

They had simply not been the whole truth.

Now I understood that affection and honesty had to live together.

One could not do the work of the other.