We had plans—retiring in a smaller home with a wide porch, traveling through New England in autumn, spoiling future grandchildren if our daughter Julia ever chose to have any.
We had even talked about being buried side by side.
We just hadn’t bought the plots yet.
We thought we had time.
After the funeral, I made an impulsive decision—one that was expensive and unlike me. I went to the cemetery office and bought the plot next to his.
It took nearly all my savings. Daniel would have told me not to—that we should plan, budget, and think it through.
But when I stood there, looking at his grave and the space beside it, I felt a small sense of peace.
At least that part of our future was still ours.
Last week would have been our twenty-sixth anniversary.
I woke up with that same heavy ache I’d been carrying since his death. Halfway through my coffee, I whispered to myself, “We can still spend it together.”
I got dressed, bought white lilies—his favorite—and drove to the cemetery.
As I approached his grave, something felt wrong.
The area was mostly quiet. A distant funeral was taking place, and a young man stood nearby, but otherwise, it was empty.
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