Gemotions

The small, leather-bound notebook was hidden inside a hollowed-out book on the shelf. I found it while dusting, a chore I approached with a methodical approach. The entries, written in my husband, Leo’s neat hand, detailed investments and account numbers. A sense of detached curiosity washed over me.

I closed the notebook and replaced it. The room was quiet, sunlight slanting across the worn rug. Later that week, I noticed him fretting over a small home repair.

“Let me handle it,” I said, my tone soothing, “I have time.” I did, after all. And plenty of it.