I was 55 years old, newly widowed after 36 years of marriage, when something I found at my husband’s funeral made me question whether I’d ever really known the man I loved.
His name was Greg—Raymond Gregory on paperwork, but just Greg to me.
We were married for 36 years. No drama. No fairytale. Just a quiet life built on grocery lists, car maintenance, and his habit of choosing the outer seat in restaurants “in case some idiot drove through the window.”
Then, on a rainy Tuesday, a truck didn’t stop in time.
One call. One hospital visit. One doctor saying, “I’m so sorry.” My life split cleanly into Before and After.
At the viewing, I felt hollow. I had cried until my skin hurt. My sister had to zip my dress because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Greg looked peaceful, dressed in the navy suit I bought for our last anniversary. His hair was neatly combed. His
hands folded like he was resting.
I brought a single red rose. When I leaned in to place it between his hands, I noticed something else—a small white note tucked beneath his fingers.
Someone had placed it there without telling me.
I slipped the note into my purse and went to the restroom. When I read it, my breath caught.
