Greg and I didn't have children.
Our kids.
Greg and I didn't have children.
Not because we didn't want them. Because I couldn't.
Years of appointments, tests, quiet bad news. Years of me crying into his chest while he whispered,
"It's okay. It's you and me. That's enough. You are enough."
Who wrote this?
But apparently, there were "our kids" somewhere who loved him "forever."
My vision blurred. I grabbed the sink and stared at myself in the mirror.
Mascara smeared. Eyes swollen. I looked like a cliché.
Who wrote this? Who had kids with my husband?
I didn't cry. Not then.
"Someone put this in his casket."
I went looking for the cameras.
The security room was a small office with four monitors and a man in a gray uniform. His name tag said "Luis."
He looked up, startled.
"Ma'am, this area is—"
"My husband is in the viewing room," I said. "Someone put this in his casket."
