Chapter 30: The Book She’ll Read in Secret

He never expected her to read it publicly.
He knew her too well for that.
She was guarded, careful, private to the point of suffocation.

But he also knew—
she would read it.
All of it.

Maybe at night.
Maybe with a glass of water beside her.
Maybe while the kids were asleep and the house finally quiet.

And when she opened to the first page, she’d realize:
This wasn’t just a story.
It was her life, too.

She’d see herself in the girl he first met—
angry, scared, bold, brilliant.

She’d remember Olongapo.
Smule.
That one night with the karaoke and the laughter.
That morning she cooked for him without being asked.

She’d read about the betrayals and the forgiveness
and the times she walked away when he needed her most.

And it would hurt.
Because the truth always does—
especially when you know it was written by someone
who saw everything
and loved you anyway.

She’d reach the parts that made her cry.
And the parts that made her mad.
And the parts she denied ever happened.

But still, she’d keep turning pages.
Not because she wanted to relive it—
but because she needed to remember how deep it went.
How real it all was.

He left space in the margins.
He did that for her.

Just in case she wanted to write back —
quietly, in pen—
with questions, or apologies,
or maybe just the words:

“I remember.”

He would never get to see those notes.
But that didn’t matter.

The point wasn’t to get closure.
The point was to leave no room for her to wonder
if she had been loved.