I believed I knew every chapter of my husband’s life until the day we buried him. Then a teenage boy I’d never seen before walked up to me and uttered words that threw my life into a tailspin.
I had been married to Daniel for 28 years.It was long enough for me to believe I knew everything about him, including his habits and past.I knew the stories about his childhood, his college years, and his first apartment with broken heating and secondhand furniture.We were so intertwined that I knew how he stirred his coffee counterclockwise and that he hummed off-key when he was nervous.

Daniel and I were simple, with no secret bank accounts or sudden business trips.Instead, we built a steady life around routines: Sunday grocery runs, shared coffee before work, and quiet evenings on the couch watching old detective shows.We never had children, and that’d been our one silent ache, but we learned to live around it.When I lost the love of my life, it was sudden.A heart attack in the driveway.One minute, he was arguing about whether we needed to repaint the fence. Next, I was in the back of an ambulance holding his hand and begging him not to leave me.”Daniel, stay with me!” I cried. “Please, don’t do this!”But he was already slipping away.His hand had gone slack before we’d even reached the hospital.The funeral was small.Mostly family, a few coworkers, and some neighbors.I stood by the casket, greeting people I barely registered.”I’m so sorry, Margaret,” my sister Claire whispered.”He was a good man,” his boss said.”Call me if you need anything,” someone else added.I nodded and said thank you repeatedly until my face hurt.That’s when I noticed him.