Chapter 5 - THE FIRST THING I DISCOVERED
Six weeks into my new job, I found an irregularity in the telescope data.
At first, it looked like a processing error.
Then I noticed the same unusual pattern appearing across observations taken on different nights.
I checked the calibration files.
Ran the analysis again.
Compared the results against known instrumental effects.
The signal remained.
Noah leaned over my shoulder.
“Still there?”
I nodded.
“Still there.”
He smiled.
“Then we should tell Eleanor.”
We spent the next two weeks testing alternative explanations.
The work was exhausting.
I loved it.
One afternoon, Professor Whitcomb called me into her office.
She held a draft manuscript.
“Claire, this is excellent.”
My throat tightened.
“Thank you.”
She smiled.
“Your contribution should be central to the paper.”
I stared.
“Really?”
“Of course.”
For five years, I'd been introduced as Adrian Moretti's wife.
Now someone was discussing my work.
My ideas.
My name.
I returned to my office and cried.
Not because I missed Adrian.
Because I finally understood how much of myself I'd surrendered.
That evening, my attorney called.
“Claire, Adrian has agreed to temporary separation terms.”
I closed my eyes.
“Good.”
“But he's requesting a conversation.”
“No.”
She paused.
“He says he wants to apologize.”
I looked at the research paper on my desk.
“Then he can write a letter.”
“Would you read it?”
I thought about that.
Then said:
“Maybe.”
Three days later, an envelope arrived.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
Adrian had never written me a letter before.
Not during our courtship.
Not on our wedding day.
Not on our anniversaries.
I sat by the window and opened it.
Claire,
I thought I understood our marriage.
I didn't.
I thought loving me was enough to make you happy.
I never asked what loving me was costing you.
My eyes filled.
I continued reading.
I know I hurt you.
I know I humiliated you.
I know you heard what I said about Sophia.
I stopped.
He knew.
Somehow, Daniel must have told him.
I read the final paragraph.
I'm not asking you to come home.
I'm asking you to believe that I finally understand why you left.
Adrian.
I folded the letter.
Placed it in a drawer.
Then returned to my work.
An apology could matter.
May you like
But it didn't erase what had happened.
And it certainly didn't mean I was going back.
