The day I buried Emily, all I had left were our pictures and memories. But when something slipped out from behind our engagement photo that evening, my hands shook. What I discovered made me question whether I had ever known my wife at all.
The funeral home had tied a black ribbon on our front door. I looked at it while holding the key in the lock and wondered who had thought it necessary.
As if the neighbours didn’t already know I’d been in the cemetery all day, watching my wife being lowered into the ground while Reverend Matthews talked about angels and eternal rest.
My hands were shaking when I finally opened the door. The house smelled of something not good – leather polish and condolence casseroles.
Emily’s sister Jane had ‘helped’ me with the cleaning while I was in the hospital those last few days. Now everything sparkled with an artificial brightness that made my teeth ache.
‘Home, sweet home, huh, Em?’ I exclaimed, but caught myself immediately. The silence that came in response felt like a physical blow.
I loosened my tie, the blue one Emily had bought me last Christmas, and kicked off my dress shoes. They hit the wall with a thud.
Emily would scold me for this, pressing her lips together the way she did, trying not to smile as she lectured me about scuff marks.
‘Sorry, darling,’ I muttered, but left my shoes where they were.
Our bedroom was even worse than the rest of the house. Jane had changed the bed linen – probably trying to be kind – but the smell of fresh linen only emphasised that Emily’s scent was gone.
The bed was made up in hospital corners, every wrinkle smoothed out, erasing the careless mess that was our life together.
‘This isn’t real,’ I said to the empty room. ‘This can’t be real.’
But it was. The condolence cards on the dresser proved it, as did the pills on the nightstand, which in the end weren’t enough to save her.
It had all happened so suddenly. Em had fallen ill last year, but she had fought the disease. The chemotherapy took a huge amount of effort on her part, but I was there for her and supported her every step of the way. Eventually the cancer went into remission.
We thought we had won. And then a checkup revealed that the cancer was back, and it was everywhere.
Em fought like a cougar to the very end, but… but it was a lost battle. I realised that now.
I collapsed onto her side of the bed, not bothering to change into my funeral clothes. The mattress no longer held her shape. Had Jane really turned it over? The thought made me irrationally angry.
‘Fifteen years,’ I whispered into Emily’s pillow. ‘Fifteen years, and this is how it ends? A ribbon on the door and a casserole in the fridge?’
My gaze fell on our silver-framed engagement photo, lit by the late evening light. Emily looked so alive in it, her yellow sundress standing out brightly against the summer sky, her laughter hushed as I spun her around.
I grabbed her, wanting to be closer to that moment and the joy we both felt then.
‘Do you remember that day, Em? You said the camera would capture our souls. Said that’s why you hated having your picture taken, because…’
My fingers caught on something behind the frame.
There was a bump under the backing that shouldn’t have been there.
I traced it again, frowning. Without thinking about what I was doing, I pulled the backing apart. Something slipped out, falling to the carpet like a fallen leaf.
My heart sank.
It was another photograph, old and slightly bent, as if it had been held in my hands often before being hidden.
In the picture, Emily (God, she looked so young) was sitting in a hospital bed, holding a newborn wrapped in a pink blanket.
Her face was like I had never seen it before: haggard, scared, but with a fierce love that took my breath away.
I couldn’t understand what I was looking at. Although we’d tried, Emily and I had never been able to have children, so whose baby was this?
With trembling fingers, I turned the photograph over. Emily’s handwriting, but shakier than I knew, ‘Mum will always love you.’
Below that was a phone number.
‘What?’ The word sounded like a scream. ‘Emily, what is it?’
There was only one way to find out.
The phone was heavy in my hand as I dialled the number, not caring that it was almost midnight. Each ring echoed in my head like a church bell.
‘Hello?’ A woman answered, her voice warm but cautious.
‘I’m sorry to call so late.’ My voice sounded strange to my ears. ‘My name is James. I… I just found a picture of my wife Emily with a baby, and this number…’
The silence lasted so long I thought she had hung up on me.
‘Finally,’ she said so quietly that I almost let it pass my ears. ‘Oh, James. I’ve been waiting for this call for years. It’s been forever since Emily got in touch.’
‘Emily’s dead.’ The words sounded like ashes. ‘The funeral was today.’