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

I’m 55, and for the first time since I was 19, I don’t have a husband. Greg died when a truck didn’t stop in time. Thirty-six quiet years—grocery lists, oil changes, ordinary love—split into Before and After.

At his viewing, I slipped a rose into his hands and found a hidden note: “Even though we could never be together… my kids and I will love you forever.” Greg and I never had children. A security camera showed Susan, a woman from his work, placing it there. She claimed the kids were his.

Later, reading Greg’s journals, I found the truth: no affair, no secret family—just a business dispute where Susan felt ruined and chose revenge. She admitted she lied to hurt me.

My marriage wasn’t a lie. Greg was loyal, flawed, human, and mine. So I started my own notebook, writing the truth—because if someone tried to bury him twice, I would make sure what remained was real.