I have been lying in this hospital bed for 24 hours now, waiting for your deathbed confession. I am pretty sure it is not going to come. You won’t salve your conscience by telling me the truth, because I know now that you don’t have one.

We both know it is a matter of days. After all the treatments we have come to this prognosis: that’s all I have.

With the help of friends, I have written my will. You will benefit from my death: I have given you the house but you don’t get any cash. Of those friends and relatives who have brought me joy, I decided to show my affection by putting aside some money for their children. The remainder is to go to the local hospice.

You have looked me in the eye and held my hand steadily as I have pulled at the covers in agitation, while we have thrashed out my funeral arrangements. I am certain you will carry them out to the letter. You have made a promise I know you won’t renege on. Yes, my wishes are a little unusual, but I want people to remember my passing as they do me: one of a kind!

Writing a will isn’t a job you’ll relish, but it is a matter of life and death Read more

Now all that is sorted, I have given you plenty of time to admit that which you have covered up almost the whole time we have lived together. I don’t have the energy to ask you outright, because I know you will deny that ours has not been a mutually exclusive relationship. For whatever reasons, you denied it outright when I challenged you. I can only surmise that you think it would hurt me too much. It hurt me too much before when I found my husband with my best friend – I thought he wanted the same future as me. Obviously not. By the time you came on the scene, my body wasn’t my own. It was hard to tell you that sex no longer held the allure it once had. We muddled along for a while, then you appeared to come to terms with it: we were the best of friends, that was enough.

You helped me through all my treatments without batting an eyelid, and accompanied me to all my appointments, sticking your oar in when you felt something was being done wrong. I was reassured by your attention; we had something special.

Although I have loved you for all you’ve done, I will not let you say you love me

You have no idea that I know, but there have been a number of reports from people seeing you in the company of a woman. You haven’t been as clever as you have imagined: their descriptions of her always tallied, it was too much of a coincidence. I cannot imagine she doesn’t know about our situation.

I never rocked the boat because we helped each other through bad times. For those, for staying the course, and for all the kindnesses you’ve shown me over the years, I am grateful. You have tried so hard to atone for your transgression, and it’s undeniable: we have had a good life together. We’ve been to places I never thought I’d see.

But (and there has to be one), although I have loved you for all you’ve done, I will not let you say you love me. Not even when you bring me flowers. Because you don’t do you? By extension, nor do you love her. We have both been a means to an end. I know already you and she won’t last – your tiny conscience (such as it is) won’t permit it. If she crashes and burns, so be it: it’s what she deserves. Such are my consolations.

Goodbye.

Anonymous

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