It was Susan.
She hadn’t run away.
She had simply spent the entire morning sitting in the café across from the hotel.
When I opened the door, she didn’t even try to smile.
“Did you read it?”
I didn’t want to slap her.
I didn’t even want to scream.
That was somehow worse.
I simply asked,
“How many times did you sit at my table, look me in the eyes, and remember that you had slept with my husband?”
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Her face went pale.
“Every time.”
“And when he died and I cried in your arms?”
Susan’s eyes filled with tears.
“Every minute.”
“And when you told me Michael loved me?”
“He did love you.”
For the first time, I raised my voice.
“Don’t defend him.”
Susan fell silent.
Then she sat down in the chair and told me something that wasn’t in the letter.
