“Mary, I have to confess something to you. I can’t take this secret to my grave anymore.”
At first, I thought it had something to do with his health.
But his next sentence made my blood run cold.
“Do you remember how we met in April 1973?”
Of course I remembered.
I was 24 years old and worked in a bookstore. One day, Robert walked in and asked for a book we didn’t have. For the next three weeks, he came back every single day.
Then he invited me for coffee.
A year later, we got married.
We had told our children the story of that beautiful coincidence hundreds of times.
But Robert took my hand and said:
“It wasn’t a coincidence. I knew your name, your address, and where you worked. I even knew what time you were alone in the bookstore.”
I froze.
“What are you talking about, Robert?”
