At my husband’s funeral, I thought the worst thing I’d face would be the silence.
The quiet after the last hymn. The hollow echo when people stopped whispering condolences and finally went home.I was wrong.The cemetery was nearly empty when I noticed her.An old woman stood a few rows away from the grave, wrapped in a faded gray coat that looked far too thin for the cold. Her hair was completely white, pulled back in a loose bun. In her arms, she held a tiny baby, no more than a few months old, bundled in a blue blanket.
I had never seen her before in my life.At first, I assumed she was lost. Maybe someone’s distant relative. Maybe she’d come with another guest and lingered too long. But something about the way she stood there—still, unmoving, eyes fixed on my husband’s grave—made my chest tighten.I waited a moment, hoping she’d turn away. She didn’t. The baby stirred softly, letting out a small whimper, and the woman adjusted him with practiced care.
I walked toward her, my heels sinking slightly into the damp ear
