The Grave
I didn’t say a word to my husband and drove to his first wife’s grave just to leave flowers and find some peace. But when I reached the spot, I dropped the bouquet from my hands the moment I saw it. Five Years
We’ve been married for five years.
During all that time, I knew he had been married before, and that his wife had died shortly before we met. I never pushed for details or asked too many questions. I assumed the pain was still fresh and that it was difficult for him to talk about.
But deep inside, I always had a strange feeling. Almost from the moment we started living together, I felt the urge to visit her grave. Not out of curiosity, but from some inner sense of duty.
To ask for forgiveness for taking her place, for living with her husband, for being happy. Maybe it sounds foolish, but it felt like the right thing to do. My husband was completely against it.
Not just hesitant—he practically begged me not to go. He grew anxious, irritated, and would quickly change the subject. I told myself he simply wasn’t ready.
But something else was even stranger: he never visited her either. Not once. Not monthly, not yearly—never at all.
Sometimes I would gently remind him. “Maybe we should go?” I’d ask if he missed her, if he could tell me something about her. But every time he responded vaguely, confusingly, as if he was afraid to speak about her at all.
Over time, that started to worry me. One day, I couldn’t ignore the feeling anymore. After work, I bought a bouquet and drove to his family’s cemetery.
Alone. Without telling him. I walked between the graves, searching for his last name, reading the inscriptions, until I finally reached the right section.
But when I stepped closer, I froze at what I saw. The Discovery
The grave was fresh. Not five years old.
Not weathered and settled into the earth like it should have been. Fresh. The headstone was new, the grass around it still sparse and patchy where sod had been laid recently.
The flowers in the vase weren’t wilted—they were fresh roses, maybe two or three days old. And the dates on the headstone made my blood run cold. ELENA MORRISON
Beloved Wife and Mother
June 12, 1985 – November 8, 2023
November 8, 2023.
Six months ago. Not five years ago. Six months.
I stood there, the bouquet slipping from my fingers, roses scattering across the grass. My husband had told me his first wife died five years ago. Before we even met.
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