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

That night, I didn’t sleep.

Instead, I opened the first of Greg’s journals again.

There were eleven in total, stacked neatly in his study drawer, each labeled by year in his careful handwriting. I had already gone through them once in a panic, searching for answers, for proof—of betrayal, of secrets, of a life I hadn’t known.

But now I read differently.

Slower.