Years of appointments, tests, quiet bad news. Years of me crying into his chest while he whispered,
“It’s okay. It’s you and me. That’s enough. You are enough.”
But apparently, there were “our kids” somewhere who loved him “forever.”
My vision blurred. I grabbed the sink and stared at myself in the mirror.
Mascara smeared. Eyes swollen. I looked like a cliché.
Who wrote this? Who had kids with my husband?
I didn’t cry. Not then.
I went looking for the cameras.
The security room was a small office with four monitors and a man in a gray uniform. His name tag said “Luis.”
He looked up, startled.
“Ma’am, this area is—”
“My husband is in the viewing room,” I said. “Someone put this in his casket.”
He pulled up the chapel feed.
I held up the note.
“I need to know who it was.”
He hesitated. “I’m not sure if—”
“I paid for the room. He’s my husband. Please.”
He sighed and turned to the monitors. He pulled up the chapel feed, rewound, then fast-forwarded.
Dark hair, tight bun.
People flickered across the screen. Hugs, flowers, hands on the casket.
“Slow down,” I said.