I thought that sixty years of living together meant that I knew Irene better than anyone else.
For informational purposes only.
Then, three days after his funeral, a stranger appeared at my door and said something that suddenly made the life we had built seem strange.
“You and Irene were never legally married.”
I was eighty-six years old, I was barefoot, standing on my doorstep with a cup of coffee that I had prepared out of habit for a woman who would never drink it.
“What did you just say?”
The man moved the envelope he was holding in his hands.
“My name is Mr. Geller. Irene asked me to give you this after her death.”
I stared at him.
“Irene didn’t have a lawyer.”
“Yes,” he said cautiously. “She came to see me several years ago.”
That alone disturbed me.
Irene told me everything.
Or at least, I had
spent sixty years believing that she had.
“Why did my wife need a lawyer?”
Mr. Geller handed me the envelope.
“Sir, I’m sorry. She gave me very specific instructions. You must read this first.”
I didn’t take it.
“What are you hiding from me?”
He hesitated.
Then he uttered the words that would change everything.
“Your wife… technically, wasn’t your wife. You and Irene were never legally married.”
For a moment, I sincerely wondered if grief had damaged my hearing.
Irene and I had celebrated our sixtieth birthday a few months earlier.
We had raised three children.
We had five grandchildren.
I was holding her hand when she died.
“Give me the envelope.”
“Robert…”
“Give it to me.”
He did it.
My name was written across it, in Irene’s handwriting.
I almost broke down.
I myself had waited for letters written in that same hand during a stay abroad.
I tore open the envelope.
The first sentence said:
Robert, there’s something I should have told you forty-six years ago.
I stopped.
Then I continued reading.
I was married before I met you.
I lowered the paper.
“Married?”
Mr. Geller said nothing.
Irene explained that at eighteen, she had married her high school sweetheart.
The marriage only lasted a few months.
They fought.
Separated.
Signed documents.
And they both believed they had divorced.
However, the final decree had never been properly registered.
Irene thought the marriage was over.
Then she met me.
I remembered that part of our history perfectly.
I first saw her at university.
She was sitting three rows in front of me, laughing with a friend.
I stared at her for so long that she finally noticed me.
Months later, when I finally asked her out, she smiled and said:
“It was about time.”
Shortly afterwards, I joined the army.
When I learned that I was going to Vietnam, I told Irene that I wanted to marry her before I left.
“Are you asking this question because you’re scared?” she asked.
“I’m asking you this because I love you.”
She smiled.
“Correct answer.”
A week later, she was wearing a white summer dress adorned with tiny blue flowers.
After the ceremony, we ate hamburgers at a roadside restaurant, as that was all we could afford.
A few days later, I left.
Her letters followed me abroad.
About a year later, I returned home.
And from there, we built everything.
Three children.
Five grandchildren.
A house.
A whole life.
For our sixtieth anniversary, Irene had squeezed my hand under the table and whispered:
“Not bad for a wedding in a cheap restaurant.”
Two months later, I was holding that same hand when she passed away.
