Every Sunday, I visited my husband’s grave. It was the only way I could feel close to him after he passed away. I wanted to keep his memory alive, to stay connected to him in some way. But something strange started happening. I would arrive and find raw eggs smashed on his gravestone.
At first, I thought it was just a nasty prank. But when I caught the person doing it, my world shattered—it was someone I trusted completely.
My husband, Owen, had passed away a year ago. It happened suddenly—a heart attack, with no warning at all. We had been together for 25 years, and just like that, he was gone. It left a hole in my heart that nothing could ever fill.
For months, everything felt empty and distant. I walked through life like I was in a fog, barely feeling anything. But every Sunday, I went to Owen’s grave. It was my way of keeping him close. The cemetery was peaceful, quiet. It gave me time to grieve, to think, and to feel his presence.
But then, three months ago, something changed.
The first time it happened, I noticed eggshells and yolk smeared on the base of his gravestone. I was confused, upset, but I cleaned it up, thinking it was just a one-time thing. But when I returned the next week, it happened again.
And again. My heart grew heavy with each new attack. It felt unbearable to think that someone was targeting Owen even in death.
I went to the cemetery staff for help, but they just shrugged. There were no cameras, no way to catch the person. I felt helpless. After the third time, I broke down in the cemetery, my voice cracking as I yelled out, “What do you want from him?”
The night before the first anniversary of Owen’s death, I couldn’t sleep. Memories of him—his laugh, his touch—kept me awake.
By morning, I decided I would go to his grave early, to be alone with my thoughts. As I walked toward the cemetery, I froze in my tracks. There, by his gravestone, was a shadowy figure. Fresh eggshells surrounded the stone.
“Hey!” I shouted, my voice shaking. The figure stiffened but didn’t turn around. I rushed closer, my heart racing. Finally, the person turned, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.
It was my sister, Madison. Standing there with an egg in her hand, looking as cold as ice.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, my heart sinking with betrayal.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she just stared at me with a blank expression. Then, she said, “You wouldn’t understand,” her voice sharp.
“Then explain!” I insisted, my words breaking through the shock.
Madison let out a bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the stillness of the morning. “You think Owen was perfect? You think he was the loving husband, the devoted father? He lied to you, Emma. He lied to all of us.”
I was confused. “What do you mean?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Her eyes hardened. “We had an affair,” she confessed. “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. I couldn’t believe it. “No,” I whispered. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” she snapped. “Didn’t he leave everything to you in his will?”
Suddenly, everything I thought I knew about Owen was called into question. I remembered his strange, last-minute business trips, the rushed phone calls that he claimed were from clients, and Madison’s overly familiar behavior around him. Could it all be true?
Madison dropped the egg and turned to leave, her words echoing in my ears. “He never really loved you. He was lying to you the whole time.”
I stood there, in shock, cleaning the gravestone with trembling hands. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to process what I had just heard. Had I been blind to the secrets he kept from me? Had he really betrayed me like this?
The next day, I ran into Madison’s daughter, Carly, at the grocery store. I had to ask her about what Madison had said. When I hesitantly mentioned the affair, Carly looked at me like I was crazy.
“What? No! Mom never told me anything like that!” she exclaimed. “She’s been bitter for years, Aunt Emma. She’s always said you had everything—stability, a good husband, a perfect life.”
Her words gave me some comfort, but the doubts lingered. That evening, I found myself staring at an old photo of Owen and me. He had his arm around me, smiling that smile I loved so much. Could I really let Madison’s anger destroy the love we shared?
In the end, I made a choice. Maybe Madison was telling the truth. Maybe she wasn’t. But I refused to let her take away the good memories I had of Owen—the husband I loved, the father who adored our children. He wasn’t here to defend himself, but I wouldn’t let Madison define who he was.
The next Sunday, I returned to the cemetery with fresh flowers. The air was still, and everything was quiet. As I placed the bouquet by Owen’s grave, I whispered softly, “I won’t let her take you from me.”
For the first time in months, I felt a sense of peace.
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