My Beloved

November 26, 2021 

Words: Housewife, Ghostwriter.

Everyday, my wife sends me a letter. Telling me stories, amusing me with jokes, encouraging me with sweet words, comforting me with corny sentences….

My wife never writes like this.

"Are you really my wife?" I wrote, handing the letter to a guard wandering the cells. He tipped his hat, accepting the request to deliver the message.

Days flew by. No response. Maybe the ghostwriter feared revealing the truth would anger the deceiving housewife. The ghost writer might have suggested the housewife write the letter herself. Either way, I have been conversing with a stranger in a span of 3 years inside this prison. Unbelievable. 

Sighing, I wished myself goodnight, hiding within the covers of the ragged blanket. 

Tomorrow came. The usual guard hit the cell door with his baton, alerting me to receive the letter. Grabbing the letter, I swiftly opened it, reading its contents.

She admitted that she was a ghostwriter. She tried to contact my wife, but she did not answer. When she visited the residence, she was gone. That was the reason why the ghostwriter didn't know what to write.

She wrote that she meant no harm, that it was only her job. She wrote that she loved writing with me, that she enjoyed the stories I wrote about the prison. She wrote that she would like to continue to write letters to each other. She wrote that she… loves me. 

I loved my wife. I loved the moments I had with her. But she deceived me. She left our house to rot, abandoning our bond. Unforgivable.

The ghost writer, a stranger who I only met through exchanging letters, loved me the most during my time in prison. She supported me, even if I was a sinner.

Of course I would continue to send her letters, of course I would tell more stories about myself. I can't believe my wife betrayed me while a stranger believed in me.