Consent Form 3436-A
rating: +23+x

I was one of them wives to never know what my husband did for a living. He worked for the US government I reckon, on some very private matters to be sure. It bothered me, but he never got sore when I asked him about his work, so I never got sore when he didn't have many answers. He would simply speak less and less until all that was left of a response was a furrowed brow and a look in his eyes that would have just as well been at a scared puppy.

"I'm sorry," he would say, his sigh heavy. "I really am. I am quiet 'cause I want’chya safe. 'Cause I envy your worldview."

People have shamed me. They've said, "She got what she'd always been asking for." But isn't a good judge of character what's most important for a woman? I would rather know well what kind of person my husband was and know nothing about what he did, than to know well of his job but wonder what character flaws I overlooked 'cause of it. Too many women make compromises with the salaries of their husbands…those are the ones I feel shame for.

The men in suits arrived just after I set the water on for tea and the dog barked defensively at the sound of knocking. I thanked him for his alertness and reassured him everything was fine. I opened the door and might as well have closed it right then, knowing well why they were there. They couldn't tell me what I wanted to know. They could only tell me one thing; Jim was someone to be very proud of.

My husband's secrecy outlived him, and I didn't sleep for more than an hour at a time. How did he pass? Was someone responsible? What was so important that he never told his wife of 23 years anything? Where are his remains? Could he still be alive somewhere, his death part of a ploy that'll end as abruptly as it began, his smiling face the next one behind a knock on my door? If I had known, could I have saved him?

That knock hasn't came. It has been twelve years. Twelve years. You can't fill a hole like this with years. Not twelve of them, and not fifty either I e'spect. I live on because no one would look after his dog if not for me. That dog is the only living thing besides myself who seems to remember my husband. He still trots over to Jim's side of the bed every morning, looking for him. I can't leave that dog alone. He is old now. We are both tired. When the good Lord takes him; I will ask to go the very next day, and if ever there was an answered prayer, that'll be it.

Please. Does anyone remember my husband? Where are his remains? Does anyone know, where did he work? Is there not anyone I can talk to?

What happened to my soulmate? Where is James Cohen Abernathy?


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