Every Sunday, I visited my husband Owen’s grave. It was my way of staying close to him, of keeping his memory alive. For months, it felt like the only thing that kept me going. But then, something strange started happening. I began to find raw eggs smashed against his gravestone.
At first, I thought it was just a cruel prank—somebody trying to get a rise out of me. But when I finally caught the person responsible, my whole world shattered. It was someone I trusted completely.
It had been a year since I lost Owen. His death had come out of nowhere—he had a heart attack, no warning, no goodbyes. After 25 years together, he was gone in an instant. I was left alone, lost, with an emptiness inside that nothing could fill.
The first few months after he died were like walking through a fog. I felt numb, as if I was just going through the motions of life. My weekly visits to his grave became my way of coping.
It was the only time I could feel close to him again. The quiet of the cemetery gave me a chance to think, to grieve, and to remember the good times. It was the one place where I felt at peace.
But then, three months ago, something changed.
I was walking to his grave one Sunday when I saw the eggshells and yolk smeared all over the base of the gravestone. I couldn’t understand it. Why would someone do this? I cleaned it up, thinking it was just some random act of vandalism.
But when it happened again the next week, and then again the week after that, my heart sank. The thought of someone hurting Owen’s memory, even in death, was too much to bear.
I went to the cemetery staff for help, but they didn’t seem to care. There were no cameras around, and they didn’t seem interested in doing anything about it. I felt helpless and alone. After the third time it happened, I finally broke down. I stood there in the empty cemetery, screaming, “What do you want from him?”
The night before the first anniversary of Owen’s passing, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about him—his laugh, the way he held me, his smile. By dawn, I made up my mind. I needed to go to his grave early. As I walked through the cemetery, my heart was heavy, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to happen.
When I got closer to Owen’s grave, I froze. There, by the gravestone, was the shadowy figure of someone standing in the dim morning light. My heart skipped a beat. I thought, not again.
I called out, “Hey!” My voice was shaky, but loud enough to get their attention. The figure stiffened but didn’t turn. I ran toward them, my pulse pounding in my ears. As I got closer, the figure slowly turned around. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
It was Madison. My sister.
She was standing there, holding an egg in her hand, looking at me with cold eyes.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice trembling with shock and betrayal.
She didn’t answer right away. When she finally spoke, it was with a bitter tone. “You wouldn’t understand,” she spat, her words sharp like knives.
“Then explain!” I demanded, my heart racing.
Madison let out a bitter laugh that sent a chill down my spine. “You think he was perfect, don’t you? The loving husband, the devoted father? He lied to you, Emma. For years.”
I stared at her, confused. “What are you talking about?” My voice cracked as I asked the question.
Her eyes were cold as she spoke. “We had an affair. For five years. He promised me everything—money, a future. But when he died, I got nothing. Not a single cent. It all went to you and your kids.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. “No,” I whispered, the pain so sharp I could barely breathe. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” she snapped. “Didn’t he leave everything to you in his will? It wasn’t just for you, Emma. It was for us. He told me he was going to leave me something too. But when he died, it all went to you.”
The ground seemed to slip out from under me. Suddenly, all those little things—the late-night business trips, the phone calls I never questioned, Madison’s strange closeness to him—started to make sense. Could it be true?
Madison dropped the egg at her feet and turned away, walking off without another word. I stood there, trembling, unable to move, my mind racing. She had shattered everything I thought I knew about Owen. As I cleaned the gravestone with shaking hands, tears ran down my face. Had I been blind to his secrets all these years?
The next day, I ran into Madison’s daughter, Carly, at the grocery store. My heart was heavy as I hesitantly asked her about the affair. Carly’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“What? No!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “Mom never said anything like that. She’s been bitter for years, Aunt Emma. She’s always said you had everything—stability, a good husband, the perfect life.”
I clung to Carly’s words, feeling a small sense of comfort. But even as she spoke, doubts lingered in my mind. What if Madison wasn’t lying? What if everything she said was true?
That evening, I sat down and looked at an old photo of Owen and me, taken on one of our happy days. His arm was around me, his smile warm and loving. The image of us together was so real, so familiar. But now, I wasn’t sure what to believe.
In the end, I made a choice. Maybe Madison was lying. Maybe she wasn’t. But I wouldn’t let her take away my memories of Owen—the man I loved, the father who adored our children. He wasn’t here to defend himself, and I refused to let her bitterness define the love we shared.
The following Sunday, I went back to the cemetery, holding a fresh bouquet of flowers. The air was still, the world quiet around me. As I placed the flowers by Owen’s grave, I whispered, “I won’t let her take you from me.”
For the first time in months, I felt at peace.
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