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

When I discovered something at my husband’s burial, I was 55 years old, recently bereaved after 36 years of marriage, and it made me wonder if I had ever truly known the guy I loved.

For the first time since I was 19, I am 55 years old and have no one to call “my husband.”

Greg was his name. Greg to me, but Raymond Gregory on all forms.

Then a truck failed to stop in time on a wet Tuesday.

For 36 years, we were wed. Not much drama. Not a fairy tale. Merely a calm marriage based on oil changes, grocery lists, with him always sitting outside at restaurants “just in case some idiot drives through the window.”

Then a truck failed to stop in time on a wet Tuesday. It only took one phone call, one hospital visit, and one “I’m so sorry” from a doctor. There were Before and After periods in my life.