Chapter 1: The Note Beneath His Hands
At my husband's funeral, I opened his casket to place a flower — and found a crumpled note tucked beneath his hands.
I'm 55, and for the first time since I was 19, there's no husband waiting for me at home.
Greg and I were married for 36 years.
Ours wasn't some perfect movie romance.
It was ordinary in the best way — grocery runs, dentist appointments, inside jokes, and Greg always taking the outside seat at restaurants like he could somehow shield me from the whole world.
Then one rainy Tuesday, everything disappeared in a single phone call.
There had been an accident.
Suddenly, I was choosing a casket and answering questions about funeral arrangements while barely understanding how I was supposed to keep breathing.
By the morning of the funeral, I felt completely hollow.
When I entered the chapel, people hugged me, touched my arm, and whispered condolences I could barely hear.
Then I saw Greg.
He was lying beneath the soft lights in the navy suit I'd given him for our last anniversary.
His hair was combed exactly the way he used to wear it for special occasions.
For a moment, he almost looked like himself.
When most people had stepped away from the casket, I walked over with a rose.
I wanted to place it between his folded hands.
One last thing I could do for him.
That's when I noticed something beneath his fingers.
A small, crumpled piece of paper.
It had been tucked there so carefully that I almost missed it.
At first, I assumed it belonged to the funeral home.
Then I looked closer.
Something about it made my stomach tighten.
Who had placed a note in my husband's hands without telling me?!
I stood there for several minutes, arguing with myself.
Finally, I slipped it free.
I needed to know.
I carried it into the bathroom, locked the door behind me, and unfolded it with shaking hands.
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Who put that note in Greg's hands — and what does it say?
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