My wife signed her diary "Laura." We didn't know what that meant until it was too late.

Stuff like this happened before we met. I know it did. The emails, the calls, the notes. But my wife had no family, no friends. She said she was born with only seven nerves, had no pain threshold, and that’s why she was so clumsy. We met in a coffee shop as college students. Maybe we were stupid. I was. She said our marriage was supposed to be a happy one, and it was. Together we had a beautiful girl, and nothing to worry about to mar our happiness.<br><br>That was, until her diary. I picked it up in a used bookstore. When I brought it home to her, she was overjoyed. I’m a bad husband; I don’t write poetry like I used to, I don’t bring her flowers, I don’t take her on bus rides or to the lake like we used to. But her diary was the most important thing she’d ever owned, so I put it on the top shelf of her closet. A month later, the local police department called on a cold December morning. My wife was already up, she was making breakfast; she was working in the ER, had a shift that afternoon. Our baby girl was with her grandparents, we’d be seeing her later that week. We were busily preparing for Christmas. Our house was decorated. There was a tree in the living room, cut fresh from the farm, we decorated it together; and there were stockings hung by the chimney with care. I answered the phone, distracted. The officer on the other end asked for my wife, but I told him she was busily making breakfast; I’d do. He asked me to confirm our address on Elm Street, to tell him we’d lived there for two years. When I said yes, he told me to come down to the station. I was confused, but I could tell by the tone of his voice that this was something serious.<br><br>“You can’t tell me over the phone?” I asked, trying to disentangle from the sheets.<br><br>“I’d rather not, sir.”<br><br>“What’s it about?”<br><br>“Come down. It’s your wife.”<br><br>I hung up the phone and called out for my wife. She heard me and walked into the bedroom, my savior, my love, my heart. I told her that the police wanted to see us.<br><br>“Why?” she asked.<br><br>“They said they’d talk to us when we get there.”<br><br>She nodded and went back into the kitchen. I got dressed and followed her. The bacon was burning. It smelled awful.<br><br>“What’s going on?” I asked her.<br><br>“I see this every night.” She turned away from our breakfast.<br><br>She called the station. I listened as she explained the situation to the Police Chief. Then she came to me. I didn’t want to go, I was in the middle of a term paper, I had a lab; but she told me that someone in the area had been shot, and our physical address had been found in a wallet. I knew the neighborhood. Catcalls had been a norm for us since we moved in; maybe I was overreacting. I was. I don’t know why I was worried, but something told me something was wrong.<br><br>We got in my car and drove. I listened as my wife called her work, explained her situation to her boss, who told her to be careful, come in whenever she was done, even if it was after her shift was supposed to begin. When we got there, I parked. She held my hand as we walked into the station; the lights were bright, it was cold inside. They told us someone in the area had been shot. They told us they found our address in a dead man’s wallet. They told us to call the local hospital. We did. They told us they had a Jane Doe. We asked them to describe her. My wife was beginning to worry. She was pacing. When they told us “A redheaded woman with a bruise on her cheek and a bandage on her palm,” I looked at my wife. She was crying. The police said they’d tell us more if we came to the ER. When they said they’d need an ID, I didn’t know what they meant. I didn’t know what they meant when they told us her ID had been stolen, she was a Jane Doe.<br><br>As we drove, the sky began to darken. We didn’t ask the hospital for a name, we asked for the redheaded woman. When they took us to her, the sight took our breath away. There was a bandage on her palm, a bruise on her cheek. She was my wife. I didn’t know how, but it was her. I stood there, frozen, my heart pounding. Then my wife ran up to her. My wife was screaming, beating her fists on the floor. The people were staring. I walked up to her, crouched down beside her, put my arms around her. I held her. I talked to her.<br><br>“Baby, it's okay,” I said. “Let’s just stay calm, okay?”<br><br>“I know,” she said. “We’re okay.”<br><br>“When we get home,” I said, “We’re calling the police.”<br><br>“Do you want to get something to eat?” she asked me.<br><br>“Yeah,” I said.<br><br>“Okay.” She smiled at me. “Let’s do it.”<br><br>I stood up, and on my way to the car, I remembered my wife. My heart began racing; my breath was catching in my throat. I looked back at her. She was still on the floor, she was still crying. I wanted to go to her, I wanted to comfort her, but I was so confused. I walked back to her and bent down.<br><br>“Baby, we have to go home,” I said. “The police are coming.”<br><br>“Police?” she asked.<br><br>“They said someone had died.”<br><br>“What?” My wife asked me. She stood up. “What?”<br><br>“Don’t you remember?” I asked. “Stuff like this happened before we met.”<br><br>“Stuff like what?” I asked.<br><br>I was so confused. I had to tell her, but I didn’t want to. “Do you remember the first time you called me? You’d said our marriage was supposed to be a happy one. I asked you what you meant.”<br><br>“Of course I do.”<br><br>“Do you remember what you’d told me?”<br><br>She looked at me, confusion in her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I told you we weren’t really married.”<br><br>“Why did you tell me that?”<br><br>She signed. “I don’t know.”<br><br>“When we met on the bus, had I not proposed, would we have met anyway?”<br><br>“When we met on what bus?” she asked.<br><br>My heart was pounding. I felt like I was going to pass out. I took a deep breath and stood up. I looked at her. She was so beautiful. She was my wife, and she always would be. I took a deep breath and her hand. She looked up at me. I looked at her. We were married. I knew that. I wanted to go home. I had to tell her. I wanted to tell her. I had to tell her what I saw.<br><br>She was the redheaded woman, the Jane Doe. She had a bruise on her cheek, a bandage on her palm. Her shoulders were thin, her arms were gaunt. The hospital was waiting for her family to come, to identify her. She knew nothing of our life. I told her she had a job, a family, a child, a husband. I told her our story, and she listened. She listened as I told her our daughter had played on the swings at the park with me; as I told her I used to take her to the lake. She smiled, she listened, tears in her eyes. When I finished, she was silent. I wanted to tell her, I wanted her to understand. I had to. I looked at her. She looked at me. I knew I had to. I didn’t want to. I didn’t have a choice.<br><br>“Here.” I said. “Read this.”<br><br>She took it. It was the diary from the used bookstore. She thanked me, took it from me, and flipped it open. I looked at her. She smiled. Her eyes scanned the pages, her face beaming. She turned page after page, and I felt like I had died. I wanted to leave, to walk away, but I couldn’t. She loved me, she loved our baby girl. She smiled as she read. I knew she read the entire diary. When she read the last page, she looked up at me.<br><br>“I’m so glad I’m married to you,” she said.<br><br>“I’m glad too.” My eyes were brimming with tears. I felt like I was about to cry.<br><br>“You’re the love of my life, you know that?” she said.<br><br>“Yes.” I wanted to tell her, I wanted to tell her what she’d done, but she was so beautiful. I couldn’t do it. “Baby. There’s something I need to tell you.”<br><br>“What is it?”<br><br>“When we married, do you remember what you told me?”<br><br>“Yes.” She looked up at me. “I told you our marriage was supposed to be a happy one.”<br><br>“Do you remember what you’d told me?” I asked.<br><br>She looked at me, hurt in her eyes. “What do you mean?”<br><br>“What did you tell me?” I asked.<br><br>“Do you not know what that means?” she asked.<br><br>“No. I don’t.”<br><br>She looked down at her feet. “Never mind,” she said.<br><br>“No, tell me.” I held her hand.<br><br>“Okay.” She looked up at me.<br><br>“Why did you tell me that?” I asked.<br><br>“Look.”<br><br>I followed her eyes.