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

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No secret kids. No double life.

The writing got darker.

By the time I reached the sixth journal, my eyes burned.

Halfway through, the tone changed. The writing got darker.

He wrote: “Susan pushing again. Wants us locked in for three years. Quality slipping. Last shipment bad. People got sick.”

Next entry: “Told her we’re done. She lost it. Said I was ruining her business.”

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Next: “Could sue. Lawyer says we’d win. But she has 2 kids. Don’t want to take food off their table.”

What if there were no secret children?

Under that, in heavier ink: “I’ll let it go. But I won’t forget what she’s capable of.”

I sat there on the bed, journal open, hands shaking.

Two kids. Her kids. Not his.

What if there were no secret children?

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What if she’d walked into my grief and decided it wasn’t enough?

I picked up my phone and called Peter.

I told him everything.

Peter was Greg’s closest friend from work. He’d been at the house three times already, fixing things that weren’t broken because he didn’t know what else to do.