My butt feels numb from sitting on the hardwood floor all day, crying. All these emotions I'm exhibiting cannot be good for the baby but I am unable to contain these tears. Eric has been gone for three hours, and I keep telling myself that he will return, but as the sky turns a darker shade at each hour, I begin to realize that tonight I will be the only person sleeping in our bed.

I'm such a fool for leaving the letters so carelessly, and I am such a terrible person for hurting Eric so badly. He is perfect, too perfect, so I'm not sure what is wrong with me. I do not understand why I feel the need to seek love elsewhere when I am married to the best man I know. After today I know my marriage is over, and I do not know how I feel about this. I am sad, but I am not sure whether I am sad because I've lost Eric, or just sad because my life is not turning out the way I have wanted it to turn out since I was a little girl. One man, four kids, the first two being twins. When the doctor told us that we were having just one child, I should have known that that was the start of my life not aligning with the plan I made when I was twelve.

I gather my letters from Maxime and put them back in the box but I do not bother locking it because my secret is already out. I am about to put one last letter in but then I realize it's the letter that caused this discovery of my unfaithfulness to happen in the first place. I read the letter again through my wet eyes, and somehow, through my blurry vision, I begin to see things more clearly. The contents of this letter remind me of a story I read on the front page of a newspaper I saw in the attic when I moved here. Eric never used his attic, so when I moved here it was extremely dusty, and a few items which belonged to the former house owners were still here.

I remember the newspaper talking about a woman who accused her fathers family of killing her mother. I remember it so clearly because it was so bizarre. The paper was also very old and dusty. I threw it away, little did I know that I was getting rid of something that can serve as a clue for me.

After this memory I am even more interested in this case, it will also help me to get my mind off Eric and pretend like my life's in order. I begin to think of where to start and then I realize that the best place to start will be in this very neighborhood. Someone who lives here has to know something. Someone has to know who Helena is, or who she was. Someone will have to have an idea of who wrote this letter. Was it Helena's mother? Was Helena the woman who accused someone of killing her mother?

The only person I can think of to answer these burning questions is the woman who lives across from us. She is very old, probably in her nineties. And she has lived in this neighborhood long before Eric moved in. so I am hoping that she knows something about Helena and the person who wrote this letter.

Later that evening, after taking a shower and drying my eyes, I walk to the house of Mrs. Andrews. Outside the house is her cat Charlie, I pet him before knocking on the door. I wait patiently for a few seconds before the door is slowly pulled open and the first thing I see is the wrinkled hand of Mrs. Andrews. Her hands have wrinkled so badly that no amount of moisturizer can fix it. Old age has come for her in the most glorious way. Her white hair is neatly packed into a low ponytail and her thin wrinkled lips are pressed tightly together. She stares at me with her blue eyes which seem to still hold on to some youthfulness. They make her look vibrant like I am sure she was decades ago.

She smiles when she recognizes me.

"It's not every day an old lady like me receives a visit from you young folk," she smiles in a way that makes me feel quite uneasy. She opens the door wider and it creaks. I walk into her dull-looking and smelling house and walk to her living room where she has two leather couches. I sit down on one and drop my bag to the floor. She smiles at me warmly and sits beside me.

"What brings you here child?" she asks in a weak voice. I can tell that her time is near.

"I want to ask you a few questions about the people who lived in our house many years ago. Do you by any chance know a Helena?" I ask.

As soon as I say the name I can see Mrs. Andrews body tensing. And in a hoarse voice, she yells at me "get out, get out right now!"