Greg lay beneath the chapel lights, perfectly still, wearing the navy suit I’d bought him for our last anniversary. His hair had been combed the way he always did before weddings. His expression was calm—almost peaceful.
It felt wrong. He was always moving, always doing something. Fixing a loose hinge. Tapping his fingers. Clearing his throat before speaking.
This stillness didn’t belong to him.
I told myself this was my last chance to do something for him. One final, small act of love.
When the line thinned, I stepped forward. I leaned over the open casket and lifted the rose I’d been holding, planning to place it between his folded hands.
That’s when I saw it.
Something pale and rectangular was tucked beneath his fingers—carefully hidden, like he didn’t want anyone else to notice.
At first, I assumed it was a card from the funeral home.
But when I leaned closer, my stomach turned cold.
It was a folded note.
Who would leave something like that? And not tell me?
This was my husband.
I hesitated for a long moment, my heart pounding. Then I told myself what I needed to hear: I have the right.
