Two days later, my uncle showed up at my door. I didn’t invite him in. “I know everything,” I told him calmly. “And you’re not welcome here.” For the first time in my life, I didn’t soften. I didn’t apologize. He left.
That night, I found a small box in Greg’s nightstand drawer. Inside were dozens of tiny notes he’d written over the years. Remember she likes extra lemon. She smiled today. Make sure she’s taken care of. I cried until morning.
A week later, I went back to the cemetery alone. I slipped the ring onto my finger before kneeling beside his grave. “I’m mad at you,” I whispered. “And I miss you so much I can’t breathe.” The wind stirred the grass. “But I understand,” I said softly. “Not all of it. But enough.”
I stood and walked back to my car, grief still heavy—but no longer hollow. I didn’t have a husband anymore. But I had truth. Strength. And the quiet knowledge that even after all those years of being protected, I could still learn how to stand on my own.
