At Husband’s Funeral Wife Meets a Woman with His Baby in Her Arms

 

 

…the baby. Lying there. All alone on the cold grass. The woman was gone.

I rushed over, heart pounding, anger turning into something else—something hollow. The baby wasn’t crying. Just staring up at me with these impossibly familiar eyes.

My husband’s eyes.

I picked him up, hands trembling. A note was pinned to the blanket: “He named him Thomas. After your father. Please… don’t let him be alone.”

I stood there for what felt like hours, the weight of betrayal and grief crashing down all at once. My husband had cheated. Lied. And now he was gone—leaving me with truth I never asked for, and a child that wasn’t mine… but somehow was.

I took the baby home. Fed him. Rocked him.

I didn’t love him.

Not yet.

But I couldn’t leave him behind.

A year passed. The nursery stayed quiet. No laughter. No first words.

Until the morning I found him cold.

A silent crib.

And a piece of paper clutched in his tiny hand: “Tell Daddy I tried to be good.”

Now, I visit two graves. One with flowers. One with toys.

And I still don’t know which one broke my heart more.