I gently slipped the note from his hands and walked straight to the bathroom.
The door clicked shut behind me, sealing out the murmurs and music. My hands were shaking as I unfolded the paper, creased into tight squares like it had been folded again and again.
I smoothed it against the counter and read.
Mara,
If you’re holding this, it means I didn’t get to tell you myself. I’m sorry.
My breath caught. Greg was the only person who still called me Mara, like it was something precious.
Please don’t let them bury me with this. It’s meant for you.
There’s something I should have said years ago.
The right time never came.
My chest tightened.
In the back pocket of my brown winter coat—the one you hate—there’s an envelope.
Take it home. Open it when you’re alone.
And please… don’t hate me before you know everything.
I folded the note quickly, my hands trembling, and tucked it into my purse.
When I stepped back into the hallway, my sister Elaine looked at me with concern.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said softly.
“I just needed air,” I replied, forcing a nod.
I sat through the service in a fog, listening to people talk about Greg’s kindness, his reliability, his quiet strength. All I could think about was the note burning inside my purse.
That evening, after the house emptied and the casseroles lined my kitchen counters, I stood alone in the silence.
For thirty-six years, I’d never been alone in this house.
I went to the closet.
Greg’s brown winter coat still hung there, smelling faintly of rain and his aftershave. I slid my hand into the back pocket and felt paper.
An envelope. Thick. Addressed in his neat handwriting.
For Mara.
