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

Ben was 17. Tall, polite, a little awkward.

He stopped by my house first.

“I can back out if you want,” he said. “You don’t owe anyone proof.”

Peter had already dug up Susan’s address from old vendor paperwork. Ben drove over.

When he came back an hour later, we sat at my kitchen table.

My hands were wrapped around a mug of tea I wasn’t drinking.

“Tell me everything,” I said.

“So,” he said, “I knocked. This girl opened the door. Teenager.

Pajama pants, messy bun. I asked for her dad.”

I pictured it as he talked.

“She yelled for him,” Ben went on. “Guy in his 50s comes to the door.

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