I purchased the burial plot beside my husband after he passed away. But when I visited him on what would have been our anniversary, I discovered that someone had already been buried there. At first, I assumed it was an error—until a young man approached me and revealed a truth my husband had carried to his grave.
For twenty-five years, Daniel and I had what others called a perfect marriage.
He was a ruthless businessman in the outside world, but at home, he was gentle, attentive, and dependable—the kind of man who warmed my side of the bed, remembered every anniversary, and helped without being asked.
I believed he was a good man.
I was wrong.
When he died three weeks ago in a car accident on an icy road while returning from a business trip, it felt like my entire world collapsed.
“They said it was instant,” I told my sister that night. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
“He knew you loved him, Erin.”
I shut my eyes tightly as tears spilled over. “That’s not the same.”
For illustrative purposes only
At the funeral, I sat in the front row, staring at his casket, thinking: we were supposed to grow old together.
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