At My Husband’s Funeral, I Opened His Casket to Place a Flower — and Found a Crumpled Note Tucked Under His Hands

“She said the kids are actually his?” I whispered.

“No. She said they’re her husband’s. She only used Greg’s name to get revenge. Those were her words. ‘It was just words. I wanted her to hurt.'”

My eyes stung.

Just a bitter woman who decided my grief wasn’t enough punishment.

Ben added quietly, “Her daughter was crying. Her husband looked like someone had kicked him in the chest.”

Silence settled between us.

So there it was. No secret family. No double life. Just a bitter woman who decided my grief wasn’t enough punishment. I pressed my palms to my eyes and started to sob.

When I finally calmed, Ben said, “My dad always said Ray was the most loyal guy he knew. For what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth a lot,” I said.

I grabbed an empty notebook from my nightstand.

After he left, I went back upstairs and picked up Greg’s journal again.

“I’ll let it go. But I won’t forget what she’s capable of.”

“Neither will I,” I said.

I sat on the floor, grabbed an empty notebook from my nightstand, and opened it to the first page.

If Susan could write lies and tuck them into my husband’s hands, I could write the truth and keep it with me.

My marriage wasn’t a lie.

So I started. About Greg. About the rose. About the note. About the cameras. About Luis, Peter, and Ben. About a woman who walked into a funeral and tried to bury a good man twice. I don’t know what I’ll do with it yet.

But I know this: My marriage wasn’t a lie.

My husband was flawed and human and stubborn and sometimes annoying. But he was mine.

And even after everything, when I turn the pages of those journals, one thing is always there, over and over, in the margins and the little lines between his thoughts.

“I love her.”

He never hid that.

“I love her.”

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