Greg and I didn’t have children.

Not by choice. Because I couldn’t.

Years of tests. Quiet heartbreak. And Greg always telling me, “It’s you and me. You are enough.”

I checked the security footage.

A woman in black approached the casket alone, glanced around, and slipped the note under his hands.

Susan Miller—his supplier. Someone I’d met before.

I confronted her at the funeral. In front of everyone, she claimed Greg had two children with her.

I couldn’t stay. I left.

Later, alone in the house, I opened Greg’s journals. Eleven of them.

Every page was about us—our life, our struggles, my infertility, his unwavering loyalty.

There was no second family.

Then the tone changed. He wrote about Susan—business disputes, bad shipments, threats. He wrote that she had children and he didn’t want to hurt them.

They weren’t his.

I called Peter, Greg’s closest friend. He believed me immediately.

His son Ben visited Susan’s home. The truth came out.

Susan had lied. She wanted revenge. She wanted me to hurt the way she hurt.

There were no secret children. No betrayal. Just cruelty disguised as grief.

That night, I cried—not from doubt, but from relief.

I started writing the truth. To keep it. To remember.

My marriage wasn’t a lie.

Greg was imperfect, stubborn, human—and he loved me.

That truth was everywhere in his journals, written again and again:

“I love her.”

He never hid that.

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