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

His name was Greg—Raymond Gregory on paperwork, but just Greg to me.

We were married for 36 years. No drama. No fairytale. Just a quiet life built on grocery lists, car maintenance, and his habit of choosing the outer seat in restaurants “in case some idiot drove through the window.”
Then, on a rainy Tuesday, a truck didn’t stop in time.

One call. One hospital visit. One doctor saying, “I’m so sorry.” My life split cleanly into Before and After.

At the viewing, I felt hollow. I had cried until my skin hurt. My sister had to zip my dress because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.