Wilma's Deception (By guest blogger Henry Mullins)

A few years ago my wife, Wilma, died. Today, May 30th, is our anniversary. Wilma and I were married 63 years ago today. She had been an incredible woman to go through life with. She was “my girl Wilma”. In fact, she liked for me to say that. Wilma died of what they call “a long illness”. It was cancer and once the cancer was diagnosed, it took a few months. We knew that Wilma could not survive the cancer. The only question was; could I survive the loss of Wilma?

Henry Mullins

When Wilma was growing very weak, lying in bed in a hospice facility, she whispered to me that she had something she wanted to tell me. She said it was something that before she left, she wanted it off her mind. I moved close and in a halting voice Wilma told me that many decades earlier she had been unfaithful to me. Although she was not trying to be funny, I kind of chuckled. The notion of my girl Wilma being unfaithful was funny. But she shook her head listlessly and insisted that she had been untrue. In her tired voice she told me who it was; it had been Bob Maxwell. I remembered him. Decades earlier he had been a handsome, single man who had been a neighbor from across the street. Wilma said that their affair had gone on for at least a year.

It just did not seem possible, but Wilma was obviously being forthright. I had no choice but to believe her. I stepped back away from the bed and slowly lowered myself into a nearby chair. It felt like some invisible dagger had been thrust into my chest. There were a number of emotions washing over me. I felt confusion, heartbreak, and a lot of anger.

I came to visit Wilma the next day. She was in and out of consciousness. For a time I held her hand but I did not feel the sorrowfulness that should have been there. How could I? I had been deceived by the woman I had spent my life with. In a way our entire marriage had been a lie.

The next day Wilma died. My wife had died and yet I did not know how to feel. I decided that it was all right to feel some anger. After all, I had not brought it on myself. Over the subsequent months I felt a degree of grief and loneliness, but I felt disgust and disappointment too. I just could not help it. It was a natural reaction to my torment. 

Exactly six months later Wilma’s younger sister, Catherine, came to visit. I have always liked Catherine, and I thought it was a nice gesture for her to pay me a call. We sat at my kitchen table and I brewed a pot of coffee. For a moment we chatted about the weather and one thing or another. Finally Catherine stated that it had been six months to the day since Wilma died, and that there was something I was supposed to know. Catherine then said simply “Bob Maxwell”. For an instant the mere utterance of the name stunned me. But it was only for an instant.

I carefully placed my coffee cup upon the table and muttered, “So, your sister told you about him, huh?”

Catherine nodded. She then smiled and said that it wasn't true. It had been a lie. “Wilma thought that resentment was less painful than grief,” stated Catherine. “So that’s what she did; she gave you resentment instead of grief.”

Wilma and I on our wedding day

I was numb, speechless, but I also knew it was true.

“Wilma figured that in six months, when time had bypassed the period of grief, you should be told the truth. She wanted me to tell you that there had never been anyone but you, and that Wilma had loved you very much. She wanted you to go through the remainder of your life knowing that to her, her marriage to you had never been less than a wonderful thing, and that you were a wonderful man. In fact, she thought you were so wonderful, her last act was to save you from the pain and agony of her dying.”

My girl Wilma, happy anniversary.