I Was Widowed After 36 Years — Then a Note at My Husband’s Funeral Made Me Question Everything
I was 55 years old when I buried my husband of 36 years. For the first time since I was 19, I no longer had anyone to call my husband. His name was Greg — Raymond Gregory on paperwork, but always just Greg to me.
Our marriage wasn’t flashy or dramatic. It was built on grocery lists, shared routines, and small habits — like how he always chose the outside seat at restaurants “in case some idiot drives through the window.” It was quiet, steady, and real.
Then one rainy Tuesday, a truck didn’t stop in time. One phone call. One hospital visit. One doctor saying, “I’m so sorry.” And suddenly, my life split into before and after.