"You're lying."
"I'm not. He didn't want to hurt you. He told me not to bring them. He didn't want you to see them."
My humiliation was suddenly a group activity.
Every word felt like it was aimed right between my ribs. I looked around at all the eyes on us. Friends, neighbors, coworkers. My humiliation was suddenly a group activity.
I couldn't stay. I couldn't scream in front of Greg's casket.
So I did the only thing I could.
I turned and walked out.
I'd never read them.
***
After the burial, the house felt like a stranger's.
His shoes were still by the door. His mug on the counter. His glasses on the nightstand.
I sat on the edge of our bed and stared at the closet shelf.
Eleven journals in a neat row. Greg's handwriting on the spines.
"Helps me think," he'd say.
I'd never read them. It felt like opening his head.
