I told myself I needed one last moment. One final act that felt like mine alone. A small goodbye I could control.
When the line of visitors thinned, I stepped forward with a rose in my hand. I leaned over the open casket, planning to place it between his folded hands.
That is when I noticed something unusual.
Tucked beneath his fingers was a pale rectangle of paper, hidden carefully as if someone had placed it there with intention. At first I assumed it was a card from the funeral home, something about the service or a private note of condolence.
But as I leaned closer, my stomach went cold.
It was folded like a message. A note.
My heart began to pound. Who would slip a note into my husband’s hands and not tell me? Why would it be hidden? I stood there for a long moment, frozen between fear and disbelief.
Then I told myself the one thing I needed in order to move.
I have the right.
He was my husband. My life. My home. My person for thirty six years. If there was something in his hands, meant to be unseen, I had the right to know.
With as much care as I could manage, I slipped the folded paper free. My hands shook. I kept my face composed because I could feel eyes on me, but my body was vibrating with panic.
I walked straight to the bathroom down the hall and closed the door behind me.
The click of the lock sealed out the murmur of voices and the soft music. Under the harsh light above the mirror, I unfolded the paper, smoothing the creases against the counter. It had been folded into tight squares, the kind of folding you do when you carry something close for a long time.
And there, in Greg’s familiar handwriting, I saw my name.
Mara.
Greg was the only person left who still called me Mara the way he did, like it was more than a name. Like it was something he treasured.
My breath caught as I read.
