For fifty years, I dreaded becoming a widow. Only after his death, while sorting through his things, did I realise Id spent my whole life married to a stranger.
“Mum, maybe that’s enough for today? You’re starting to smell like mothballs and the past.”
Emily wrinkled her nose in the doorway of her fathers bedroom. Margaret Wilson didnt even turn around.
She was folding his shirts into a cardboard box with methodical precision, one after another, collar to collar, as if performing a ritual.
“I just want to finish this wardrobe.”
“Youve been finishing it for a week. He was a good man, Mum. Quiet, steady, dependable. But hes gone. And these thingstheyre just things.”
Margaret froze, clutching his favourite chunky-knit jumper. *Good. Quiet. Dependable.* The words felt like three nails hammered into the coffin of their marriage. Fifty years of deafening, suffocating silence.
It wasnt his death shed fearedit was the emptiness afterward. The kind that now seemed to seep from the cracks of the old wardrobe, thick with dust, filling her lungs.
“Ill manage, love. Go on, your husbands waiting. Dont leave him to eat alone.”
Her daughter sighed but didnt argue. She left. Margaret was alone. With a sudden, unexpected fierceness, she yanked the wardrobe door, and it creaked open reluctantly.
It needed moving so she could wipe behind it. Leonard had been particular about cleanliness. Another one of his quiet, proper little quirks.
She braced her shoulder against the heavy, stubborn wood. The wardrobe shifted grudgingly, scraping two deep grooves into the parquet floor.
And there, on the wall behind it, at eye level beneath the peeling edge of old wallpaper, was a thin, nearly invisible line. Not a crack. Something else.
Margaret ran her finger along it. The paper gave way, revealing the outline of a small, recessed door with no handle. Her heart lurched clumsily, painfully.
Inside, pressed tightly together as if holding warmth, were several thick notebooks bound in hard cloth covers. Diaries.
Her hands trembled as she pulled out the first one. *Leonard? Diaries?* The man who, at dinner, shed had to pry answers fromonly to be met with, “Fine. Had supper?”
She opened it at random. The familiar, slightly angular handwriting leapt out.
*14th March. Saw Mrs. Thompson from number three at the shop today. Crying againpension delayed, cant afford her medicine. Told Margaret I was going for a walk, then slipped to the chemist and left a bag by her door. Told the pharmacist it was a surprise from an old friend. Margaret mustnt know. Shed say we can barely make ends meet. Shes right, of course. But how could I not help?*
Margaret gripped the page. She remembered that day. Leonard had come back from his walk withdrawn, distant, refusing supper. Shed been hurt, thinking hed retreated into his impenetrable fortress again.
Frantically, she opened another.
*2nd May. The neighbours boy, Billy, is mixed up with that rough lot again. Wrecked his motorbike. His dad nearly killed him. Gave him money from the savings stash tonighttold him it was a debt repaid for his grandad. Good lad, just young and daft. Margaret wouldnt understand. She thinks other peoples problems arent ours. She keeps our home safe. And I… I cant live in a fortress while other houses crumble.*
The savings. The very ones theyd set aside for a new fridge. The ones that had mysteriously “disappeared” one day.
Leonard had shrugged, said he mustve lost it. And sheshed almost believed he drank it away. For weeks, shed despised him silently for a weakness that never existed.
Margaret sat on the floor, surrounded by dust and secrets. The air was too thin. Every line screamed of a man shed never known. A man whod lived beside her, slept in the same bed, while his real life unfolded in a parallel universe hidden behind his silence.
And in that moment, she understood with crushing clarityfifty years married to a stranger.
She read until the words blurred. Hours passed. The room darkened, but she stayed, surrounded by open notebooks like fragments of another life.
Shame burned her cheeks. Hot, bitter. She recalled every reproach, every sigh about his “lack of ambition,” every evening shed nagged him for silencenever realising it wasnt empty, but full. Full of thoughts, feelings, actions hed hidden like contraband.
*10th September. Margaret said again how lively Linda next door is. And what am I? Work, home. She must be bored with me. Shes fire. Im water. Afraid to sizzle and vanish beside her. Easier to stay quiet. Let her think Im content. As long as shes happy.*
She hadnt been happy. Shed raged at his calmness. Mistaken his care for indifference.
The door opened again. Emily stood there with a grocery bag.
“Mum, youre still at it? Brought you some milk.”
She flicked the light on. The harsh bulb exposed Margaret, dishevelled on the floor, the scattered diaries around her.
“God, whats all this rubbish? Now youre hoarding junk?”
“Its not junk. Its… your fathers.”
Emily picked one up skeptically, scanning a page. Her eyebrows shot up.
*Notes on African Violets?* Seriously? Dad and flowers? Mum, come on. He hated plants. Always moaned when you brought another pot home.”
“He didnt moan,” Margaret said softly but firmly. “He pretended to.”
*12th April. Gave Margaret a violet today. Said it was change from the shop. Truth is, I went to three garden centres for this Blue Dragon variety. She was so pleased. When she smiles, Id buy out every market. Just cant let her know how long I looked. Shed say Im daft.*
“Oh, Mum, stop,” Emily waved it off. “Just some retirement hobby. Scribbling nonsense. Come on, lets eat.”
“He wrote these his whole life. About us. About you.”
Emily sighed*that* sigh, the one that meant *Mums off again.*
“Mum, I get its hard. But dont rewrite him. Dad was a simple, good bloke. Not some secret poet. He worked at the factory, watched telly, and stayed quiet. Thats how we loved him. Why invent more now?”
The words struck like a slap. *Simple bloke. Watched telly and stayed quiet.* It was so unjust. So monstrously wrong.
“You dont understand.”
“No, *you* dont!” Emilys voice rose. “Youre sitting in dust reading old scribbles instead of facing facts. Stop turning him into someone he wasnt! Its not healthy!”
Margaret stood slowly. Her knees were numb, but she didnt feel it.
She looked at her daughterso grown, so certainand saw herself with horror. The self whod looked at her husband for fifty years and seen nothing.
She didnt argue. Just picked up the last, thinnest notebook. Opened it. And froze.
Because this wasnt his handwriting. Neat, almost calligraphic lettersa womans. And on the first page: *For my Len. Remembering our talks.*
Emily trailed off mid-sentence, watching her mothers face harden. She followed her gaze to the unfamiliar script.
“Whats *that*?” She reached for it. “Let me see.”
Margaret pulled back sharplyalmost violently.
“Dont.”
“Right, here we go,” Emily scoffed bitterly. “Secret admirers? Mum, I *told* you not to dig through his things. Now youll torture yourself.”
She sounded almost relieved. As if this “other woman” confirmed her view: Dad was just a normal man with ordinary, maybe even dirty, secrets. That image made sense. Better than the saint Mum had started painting.
Margaret wasnt listening. Her eyes locked onto the first entry.
*20th January. Len brought books today. Said theyd help distract me. Hes… attentive. Sees me, not my illness. The only one who still does. We talked about constellations. He knows them all. Whod have thought?*
Illness? Constellations? Margaret remembered him trying to point out Orion and the Plough when they were young. Shed brushed him off, saying her mind was on nappies and bills.
“Mum, bin it,” Emily insisted. “Youre hurting yourself.”
Margaret turned the page.
*5th February. Came after work, exhausted. Talked about Margaret. He loves her so. Says shes his fortress, his ground. And hes just a quiet satellite orbiting her. Afraid to upset
