At eighteen, I made a pivotal decision to marry Daniel, a charming and witty man my wealthy father despised. My father had angrily warned, “If you marry that man, you’ll get nothing from me, Margaret! You’ll learn what love means when you’re stuck in a one-bedroom dump with cockroaches crawling everywhere!”
Ignoring his threats, I followed my heart and married Daniel. Moving into our small apartment felt romantic at first—thankfully, there were no insects or rodents, just limited space. Daniel started working at the post office, and I found a job as a hotel receptionist. When I encouraged him to look for a better-paying job, he reassured me, “Job security, love. I need to know we’ll have a pension when we’re older.”
Daniel’s caution stemmed from his past—he had watched his father die in a construction accident, leaving his undocumented mother and five children to struggle without insurance or a pension. Determined to avoid a similar fate for us, he clung to the stability of his post office job. Still, with two children to raise, our modest incomes barely covered our needs. Frugal as we were, saving money was a rare luxury.
Years later, after our children left home—our son settling in Alaska and our daughter in Brazil—we found ourselves back where we started. Around that time, my father passed away, leaving his entire fortune to my youngest brother, showing no remorse or change of heart. Daniel, disheartened, lamented, “This is what loving me cost you, Margaret—the life you deserved!”
I firmly countered, “I wouldn’t trade what we’ve built for all the money in the world!” Yet Daniel became distant and withdrawn, and for the first time in our 38-year marriage, I doubted his love.
Not long after, Daniel began working excessive overtime. “Overnight delivery mail needs sorting around the clock,” he explained. But when he returned home in the early morning hours, he smelled of lilies—a scent I disliked and associated with my grandmother. Our intimacy dwindled, and our joint account mysteriously emptied. When I brought up my concerns, Daniel snapped, “Do I need to justify my spending? I earned this money; it’s mine!”
Heartbroken, I suffered in silence as our marriage deteriorated. Daniel’s absences left little room to address the growing distance between us, and we rarely spoke of our retirement plans. On weekends, he barely left the garage, engrossed in activities he never shared with me. I felt like the happiest years of my life had vanished, leaving me to wonder if Daniel had ever truly loved me.
On our 50th wedding anniversary, Daniel suffered a heart attack. Even before the doctor spoke, I knew the outcome. “Prepare yourself for the worst, Mrs. Hernandez,” the doctor said. “His heart is failing, and a transplant is the only hope.” Two weeks later, Daniel passed away. On his last day, he whispered his final words to me: “Margaret, I love you—only you. I always have.” Though tender, they offered little solace after years of doubt.
After the funeral, our children returned to their lives, leaving me alone in an empty house. Only my granddaughter, Anna, stayed behind to support me. Determined to erase the pain of the past, I packed Daniel’s belongings for donation. As we sealed the last box, the overpowering scent of lilies sent me into a spiral of grief. I told Anna about my suspicions of Daniel’s infidelity and how his final words felt like a cruel lie.
Anna suggested clearing out Daniel’s garage to move forward. Amid the clutter, she discovered a locked, rusted suitcase. We pried it open and found stacks of $20 bills and a journal. “Grandma,” Anna gasped, “you need to see this.” The journal revealed Daniel’s secret: for the past 12 years, he had worked night shifts as a sewer cleaner for the NYC sanitation department. He’d endured grueling labor to save for my future, ashamed to let me know.
“I told Margaret I was sorting overnight mail and showered before coming home to keep the filth out of our house,” Daniel wrote. Month after month, he meticulously saved his earnings, amassing $300,000 to secure my retirement.
Tears streamed down my face as I read his words. I realized how deeply I had misjudged him. While I doubted his love, Daniel had been sacrificing everything for me. “Oh, Daniel,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry for ever doubting you.” Clutching his journal to my heart, I finally understood the depth of his unwavering love and regretted all the time I had wasted in bitterness.