After 36 years of marriage, I was 55 years old and recently bereaved when I learned something at my husband’s burial that made me wonder if I had ever really known the guy I loved.
I am 55 years old, and for the first time since I was 19, I have no one in my life that I can refer to as “my husband.”
Greg was his name. He was just Greg to me, although his actual name was Raymond Gregory.
Then it all came to an end on a wet Tuesday. A truck failed to stop in time. Just one phone call. One hurried hospital visit. “I’m so sorry,” a doctor said. My life was split into Before and After in an instant.
We had been wed for thirty-six years. Not really dramatic. No grandiose romanticism. Just a calm, routine-based life consisting of grocery lists, oil changes, and his habit of always selecting the outdoor seat at restaurants “in case some idiot drives through the window.”
I felt totally empty by the day of the viewing. My skin ached from crying so much. My hands were shaking so much that my sister Laura had to zip my dress.
The chapel had a subtle coffee and floral scent. People whispered to each other and softly touched my arm as soft piano music played, making me feel like I may shatter.
And there he was. Greg. I purchased him a navy suit for our last anniversary, and he was lying motionless in it. The way he always wore his hair for weddings, it was nicely combed. He appeared to be merely resting with his hands folded.
He appeared at ease.
This was my last opportunity to help him, I reminded myself. One final act of affection.
I approached with a single red rose when the crowd subsided. I carefully took his hands and placed the flower between them as I leaned forward.
I noticed it at that point.
Tucked under his fingers was a tiny white rectangle. It’s not a card for prayer. The size was incorrect.
I was unaware that someone had put something in my husband’s coffin.
I took a look around. People conversed quietly while standing in groups. Nobody is observing me. Nobody appears to be guilty.
He was my spouse. I had a right to know whether there was a secret there.
I slipped the paper free and replaced it with the rose, my fingers shaking. After putting the note in my purse, I hurried to the bathroom down the hall.
I went inside, leaned against the door, locked it, and unfurled the paper.
The handwriting was neat. Take caution. Ink in blue.
“My kids and I will love you forever, even though we could never be together the way we deserved.”
The words didn’t make sense at first.
Then they did.
Greg and I were childless.
I couldn’t have them, not because we didn’t want them.
years of medical appointments. tests. Silent disappointments. There were nights when he muttered, “It’s okay,” while I sobbed onto his chest. I’m with you. That’s sufficient.
This note now mentioned “our kids.”
As I grabbed the sink and gazed at my reflection—mascara smeared, eyes puffy, hardly recognizable—my eyesight became blurry.
This was written by whom?
Who was my husband’s child’s parent?
I haven’t started crying yet.
I set out to find the answers.
I located the security office. A man named Luis was in a tiny room with four monitors.
He seems taken aback to see me.
I held up the note and stated, “My husband is in the viewing room.” “This was placed in his coffin by someone. I must know who.
He hesitated for a second before rewinding the video.
As they went by the coffin, people said goodbye and placed flowers.
I said, “Slow down.”
Then I noticed her.
A black-dressed woman. A tight knot was pulled over dark hair. She came over by herself, looked around, put her hand under Greg’s, tucked something in, and then patted his chest tenderly.
Susan.
Miller, Susan.
She was someone I had previously met at Greg’s place of employment. Effective. polished. Always grinning a bit too broadly.
She was the one who had put that message in my husband’s coffin.
I went back to the chapel after taking a picture of the screen.
With her eyes red as if she were the bereaved widow in a different version of this tale, Susan stood close to the rear and spoke gently with two women while holding a tissue.
Something changed on her expression as she saw me coming. guilt.
I came to a stop before her.
I said, “You left something in my husband’s coffin.”
She gave a blink. “What?”
I said, “I saw you on camera.” “Don’t tell me lies.”
Her voice wavered. “I just wanted to bid you farewell.”
“So why keep it a secret?” I inquired. “Susan, who are the children?”
Nearby people had started paying attention.
She appeared as though she would pass out. Then she gave a slight nod.
“They belong to him,” she said. “The kids of Greg.”
A wave of shock swept across the space.
“Are you implying that my spouse had kids with you?”
“Two,” she replied. “A girl and a boy.”
I said, “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” she maintained. “He had no desire to harm you. I was warned not to bring them by him.
I was suddenly struck with embarrassment.
It seemed like everyone in the room was staring at me.
I was unable to remain there. Not in his presence. Not in that manner.
I then turned and left.
The house felt strange after the interment.
He still had his shoes beside the entrance. He left his mug on the counter. His spectacles were on the bedside table.
I sat on the bed and gazed at the closet shelf.
Eleven journals, arranged nicely. Each spine bears Greg’s handwriting.
He used to say, “Helps me think.”
They were unfamiliar to me. It was too intimate.
But I wanted answers now.
I started by opening the first journal.
A week after our wedding, everything began. He wrote about our honeymoon, including my laughter and the faulty air conditioner.
We were the subject of page after page. Our existence. Our challenges. Our little moments.
the treatments for fertility. My tears. His desire to bear my suffering.
Nothing about another woman in journal after journal. Not a word about kids.
Then something shifted in the sixth journal.
He wrote about Susan.
Regarding her company. regarding shipments that had caused illnesses. about the desire to sever ties.
about her rage. She made threats.
Lastly, “I’ll let it go.” However, I will never forget what she is capable of.
Shaking, I sat there.
What would happen if there were no kids?
What if life had never been at all?
What if her purpose for attending my husband’s funeral was to harm me?
I gave Greg’s best friend, Peter, a call.
I said, “I need your help.”
He said to me, “I believe you.”
Ben, his son, visited Susan’s home the following day.
He told me everything when he returned.
Susan had admitted it.
No kids were present.
She had told a falsehood.
She claimed that Greg had destroyed her company. said she want for me to experience the same suffering that she experienced.
She had stated, “I wanted her to hurt.”
That was all.
No covert family. No secret life.
My husband was given a nasty falsehood to break me one last time.
I sat there and let the reality to sink in.
My union had been genuine.
Greg had loved me despite his flaws and humanity.
I grabbed a notebook and started writing.
I would preserve the truth if someone tried to bury him with a lie.
Because regardless of what I read or learned, one thing had remained constant.
There was one thing he had never concealed in all of his journals, margins, and silent spaces between his ideas.
“I adore her.”