The day I buried Emily, I thought all I had left were memories and photos. But that night, when something slipped from behind our engagement picture, my hands began to shake. What I discovered made me question if I’d ever truly known my wife.
A black ribbon hung from our front door, a reminder of the funeral. I stood at the threshold, unsure why it was there—like the neighbors didn’t already know I’d just buried my wife.
Inside, the house felt strange. It smelled of leather polish and casseroles, not of Emily. Jane had “tidied” while I was at the hospital during Emily’s final days, and everything now gleamed with a sterile, foreign brightness.
“Home sweet home, right, Em?” I said, only to be met with silence. I kicked off the shoes she bought me last Christmas, their dull thud a reminder of her absence. She would’ve scolded me, of course.
The bedroom was worse. Jane had stripped the bed, and the fresh linen only made the emptiness worse. “This isn’t real,” I whispered. But it was. Emily’s battle with cancer had ended too soon, after it came back and spread so quickly.
I collapsed onto the bed, eyes landing on our engagement photo. I reached for it, trying to feel close to her. As I touched the frame, I felt something unexpected—a bump behind the backing.