Dear Molly,
This is not a suicide note.
This is not me explaining to you how I can't go on living any longer because being alive is tearing me apart. It isn't. There has been no tragedy turning everything upside down and no memories have been awakened to torture my mind until its breaking point, where I go down into the basement trying to find a beam to wrap my tie around or go looking for pills in our medicine cabinet only to remember that we lowered the basement ceiling to get rid of the ugly beams a year ago and that the only chance of medicine-induced death would be me choking on a handful of Aspirin pills. We are truly healthy people.

This is not a note of me leaving you.
I have no intentions of leaving you and the house. There is no secret affair for you to know about. With my job, I wouldn't even have had the time if I wanted to. But I never wanted to and I still don't. Nor have I got myself into any other kind of trouble. No gambling debts, no drugs, no loss of all our money some other way. It's still all there. Not a penny missing.

This is only a note to keep you occupied.
To make sure you're focused on something else while I lock the door shut as quietly as I can. To make sure you do not realise the windows have been nailed shut. And I know how much you are paying attention to details and I didn't want you to discover the knife missing from its block.

You see, I am still in the house and I am still very much alive. More alive than I've been in years.

But where am I?