At My Husband’s Funeral, I Opened His Casket to Place a Flower — and Found a Crumpled Note Tucked Under His Hands

I was 55 years old, newly widowed after 36 years of marriage, when something I found at my husband’s funeral made me question whether I’d ever really known the man I loved.

I’m 55, and for the first time since I was 19, I don’t have anyone to call “my husband.”

His name was Greg. Raymond Gregory on every form, but Greg to me.

We were married for 36 years. No big drama.

No fairytale. Just the quiet kind of marriage built on grocery lists, oil changes, and him always taking the outside seat in restaurants “in case some idiot drives through the window.”

Then one rainy Tuesday, a truck didn’t stop in time. One phone call, one trip to the hospital, one doctor saying “I’m so sorry,” and that was it.

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