Sometimes, before he left, he placed one rough hand against her headstone and kept it there for several seconds.
Like he was saying goodbye all over again.
By the third month, I could not take it anymore.
That Saturday, I stepped out of my car and walked toward him.
He heard my footsteps but did not turn around.
His hand stayed pressed against Emily’s name.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “I’m Emily’s husband. I think it’s time you told me who you are.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he slowly stood, turned toward me, and looked like a man who had been waiting six months for this question.
Finally, he said:
“Your wife was my…”
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