Chapter 1

My husband, Frank Bennett, passed quietly in his study.

Beside him lay a heartfelt suicide note that began with the words, "To my beloved wife, Eleanor."

The only problem was, my name was Linda.

*****

It was seven in the morning, but the alarm hadn't rung.

I opened my eyes. Something felt off. The space next to me was empty. On Frank's side, his blanket was folded neatly, and his pillow was perfectly in place. That was weird; he never made the bed in the morning.

I called his name, "Frank?"

There was mere silence.

I sat up. The bedroom was eerily quiet. The curtains were drawn, letting in a thin stream of light. This house had been ours for thirty years, every corner was familiar, but today, that familiarity felt strangely cold.

I got out of bed and opened the bedroom door.

The living room was empty.

No one in the kitchen. The bathroom door stood open, lights off inside.

"Frank?" I called again.

My voice echoed through the living room, but no one answered. I started to panic. It wasn't just worry; it was a gut feeling that something was really off.

Then I spotted the study door.

It was left slightly open, just a sliver.

Frank always called it his contemplation room. I rarely went in; it was his space. He said he needed it for writing, thinking, and just being alone. After thirty-three years of marriage, I respected that. Who didn't need a little space of their own?

I walked up to the door and put my hand on the handle.

My heart skipped a beat.

The smell hit me, faint, but definitely there. It was gas.

"Frank," I called out.

I shoved the door open.

He sat in the chair behind his desk, back to me, head tilted slightly. He looked so natural, almost as if just sleeping. But on the desk sat a small gas stove, hose disconnected, valve open. The window was sealed shut.

My legs went weak, and I grabbed onto the doorframe for support.

"Frank... Frank," I called out, panic rising in my chest.

He didn't move.

I shuffled forward, each step heavy as lead. When I finally got in front of him, I saw his face, so calm, eerily calm. His eyes were closed, lips a little blue, but his expression was relaxed, almost like he was... finally free?

My hands shook as I reached out to check for his breath.

There was no breath.

His neck was cold to the touch.

His wrist was cold as well.

I collapsed onto the floor, my mind was reeling. He was gone. Frank was gone. He had taken his own life. In our study, with gas. While I was sleeping in the next room, he came in here, closed the door, and opened the valve.

Why?

I looked at him, the man I had shared most of my life with. Sixty-two, hair mostly white but neatly combed. He wore the gray sweater I bought last year, with dark pants. Dressed to meet a guest, not to take his own life.

Then I saw something cradled in his arms.

A letter, resting in a plain white envelope. The envelope wasn't sealed, and a corner of the paper was sticking out.

I pulled it out, my hands trembling uncontrollably.

As I unfolded the paper, I saw his familiar handwriting. Frank's writing had always been beautiful, bold, and upright, just like him. But today, the strokes were so fierce, they almost felt like they could cut.

It read: [My wife, Eleanor.]

My name was Linda. Who was Eleanor?

I kept reading, each word stabbing into my chest like an ice pick.

It read: [My wife, Eleanor, I have fulfilled my lifelong promise, ensuring our child could walk openly and honorably in this world.

[Now, our son has found success, and our grandchild is about to be born. I have nothing left to worry about.

[Death has separated us, and true love was never mine to hold. I can finally break free from this unhappy marriage.]

Frank signed at the end, and the date was yesterday.

I stared at those lines, reading them again and again. I recognized every word, but together, they felt like a foreign language.

My wife, Eleanor—that wasn't me.

True love—that wasn't me.

The unhappy marriage he talked about—that was me.

Thirty-three years married. Our son, Jason Bennett, was thirty-two. Last month, he called to say his wife was expecting. Frank gripped the phone, hand trembling, voice thick. He said, "Yes, yes... I'm going to be a grandfather."

I thought he was overjoyed.

But now, looking at this letter, I finally get it. He finished what he set out to do. He kept his lifelong promise, so their child could live openly and with dignity.

Their child?

Jason... Was he really Frank and Eleanor's son?

And me? What did I mean in this thirty-three-year marriage?

I looked up at Frank. He sat there, peaceful, calm, almost dignified. He was gone, but it felt like he died on his own terms. The letter spelled it out, no more worries, finally free.

I pushed myself up from the floor, my legs still trembling. I walked over to the phone and dialed Jason's number. It rang three times before he answered.

"Mom? It's so early; what's going on?" Jason asked.

Jason sounded groggy. He was in Briarwood, over 1,200 miles away from us.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

"Mom?" Jason called out again.

"Your dad..." I said, my voice was dry, barely above a whisper. "Your dad is dead."

There was a long, deathly silence on the other end.

Jason asked, "Mom, what did you say?"

"Your dad," I said, each word slow and heavy, "is dead. He took his own life. In the study."

There was another long silence. Then I heard his rapid breathing. Jason said, "I'm coming home. Right now. Right away. Mom, did you call the police? Did you call an ambulance?"

"Yes," I said. I hadn't called yet, but I knew I should. "Come home. Hurry."

After hanging up, I finally dialed 911. Then I sat down on the living room couch, waiting. I was still clutching the letter, the paper all crumpled in my hand.

The police showed up, then the ambulance. They took pictures, asked questions, and checked everything. I just went through the motions, answering whatever they asked. In the end, Frank's body was taken away. A middle-aged cop came over, his face gentle.

"Sorry for your loss. Mind if I take a look at the note?" he asked.

I handed him the letter. He read it, his brow tightening. He looked at me, then at the note, then back at me, clearly puzzled.

"This... uh..." he said, but trailed off.

"It's not me," I said quietly. "Eleanor isn't me. I'm Linda."

The cop just nodded, saying nothing more. Maybe he had seen stranger things. In the face of death, nothing really felt that bizarre anymore.

Once they left, the house was empty again. I sat on the couch, staring at the open study door, the door Frank had closed last night, where he ended his life. And me? I was in the bedroom next door, sleeping all night soundly.

I knew nothing about it.