For thirty-eight years, my husband went to the bank every single Tuesday. Rain or sunshine. Illness or exhaustion. Even when we traveled, he always arranged things so we’d be home by Monday night.

I used to tease him.
“You’re more faithful to that bank than you are to me, Javier.”

He would smile, kiss my forehead, and answer gently,
“Some routines are what keep a family standing.”

His name was Javier Morales. An accountant. Calm. Methodical. The kind of man people instinctively trusted. I managed the home, the children, our social life. He handled the money.

I never questioned him.

Until the Tuesday after his funeral.

The house felt unbearably silent. While sorting through his office, I moved a bookshelf to clean behind it—and found a small steel safe. I’d noticed it before, but I’d never opened it. Javier had always said there was no need.

The combination was taped behind our wedding photograph.

That alone made my hands shake.

Inside, there was no cash. No jewelry. Just a single envelope.

My name written in his careful, familiar handwriting.

I sat down before opening it.

Ana,
If you’re reading this, I’m gone. And it’s time you finally understand why I disappeared every Tuesday for almost forty years.