The day I buried Emily, all I had left were our photos and memories. But when something slipped from behind our engagement picture that night, my hands began to shake. What I discovered made me question if I had ever truly known my wife.
The Unnecessary Ribbon
The funeral home had tied a black ribbon on our front door. I stared at it, my key suspended in the lock, wondering who thought that was necessary. As if the neighbors didn’t already know I had spent the afternoon at the cemetery, watching them lower my wife into the ground while Rev. Matthews spoke about angels and eternal rest.
Finally, I opened the door. The house smelled wrong — like leather polish and sympathy casseroles. Jane, Emily’s sister, had “helped” by cleaning while I was at the hospital. Now, everything gleamed with an artificial brightness that hurt my teeth. “Home sweet home, right, Em?” I said automatically, before catching myself. The silence that followed felt like a physical blow.
The Empty House
I loosened my tie, the blue one Emily had bought me last Christmas, and kicked off my dress shoes. They hit the wall with a dull thud. Emily would have scolded me for that, pressing her lips together in that way she did, trying not to smile while she lectured me about scuff marks. “Sorry, honey,” I muttered, but I left the shoes where they lay.
Our bedroom was worse than the rest of the house. Jane had changed the sheets, probably trying to be kind, but the fresh linen smell only emphasized that Emily’s scent was gone. The bed was made with hospital corners, every wrinkle smoothed away, erasing the casual mess that had been our life together.
“This isn’t real,” I said to the empty room. “This can’t be real.”
But it was. The sympathy cards on the dresser proved it. The pills on the nightstand, too — they hadn’t been enough to save her in the end.
A Sudden Loss
It had all happened so suddenly. Emily had gotten sick last year, but she fought through it. Chemotherapy took a toll on her, but I supported her every step of the way. The cancer went into remission, and we thought we had won. Then, a check-up showed it had come back—and it was everywhere.
Emily fought like a lion right up until the end, but it was a losing battle. I could see that now.
I collapsed onto her side of the bed, still in my funeral clothes. The mattress didn’t even hold her shape anymore. Had Jane flipped it? The thought made me irrationally angry. “Fifteen years,” I whispered into Emily’s pillow. “Fifteen years, and this is how it ends? A ribbon on the door and casseroles in the fridge?”
