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.

His name was Greg—Raymond Gregory on paperwork, but just Greg to me.

We were married for 36 years. No drama. No fairytale. Just a quiet life built on grocery lists, car maintenance, and his habit of choosing the outer seat in restaurants “in case some idiot drove through the window.”

Then, on a rainy Tuesday, a truck didn’t stop in time.

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