My kids.
Ray and I did not have children.
Not because we did not want them, but because I could not have them.
There had been years of appointments, blood tests, and hormone shots. Some doctors delivered bad news in softened voices. I would cry into his chest at night, apologizing for something that was not my fault, and he would whisper, “It’s okay. It’s you and me. That’s enough. You are enough.”
Apparently, somewhere, some children loved my husband forever.
The mirror above the sink reflected a woman I barely recognized. Mascara was smeared beneath my eyes. My face was swollen. My mouth hung open in shock.
Who wrote this? Who had children with my husband?
I folded the note carefully and placed it back in my purse. I did not cry. Not yet. Shock held everything in place like a dam.
Instead, I went looking for answers.
At the end of the corridor was a small office with four surveillance monitors. A security guard in a gray uniform looked up as I entered. His name tag read Daniel Ortiz.
“Ma’am, this area is restricted,” he began.
“My husband is in the viewing room,” I said. “Someone put something in his casket.”
He hesitated, then turned toward the monitors. I held up the note.
“I need to know who did it.”
After a pause that felt like a test of my sanity, he sighed and began rewinding the footage from the chapel.
People flickered across the screen in quick, jerky movements. There were hugs, flowers placed on stands, and gentle touches to Ray’s suit sleeve.
“Slow down,” I whispered.
A woman in a black dress stepped forward alone. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun. She glanced over her shoulder, then leaned in and slipped her hand beneath Ray’s folded fingers. She tucked something there, patted his chest once, and stepped back.
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