At My Husband’s Funeral, I Opened His Casket to Place a Flower — and Found a Crumpled Note Tucked Under His Hands

The following afternoon, he sent his son, Ben.

“I’ll lose my temper if I go,” Peter told me. “Ben’s calmer.”

“You don’t owe anyone proof.”

Ben was 17. Tall, polite, a little awkward. He stopped by my house first.

“I can back out if you want,” he said. “You don’t owe anyone proof.”

“I owe it to myself. And to Greg.”

Peter had already dug up Susan’s address from old vendor paperwork. Ben drove over.

When he came back an hour later, we sat at my kitchen table. My hands were wrapped around a mug of tea I wasn’t drinking.

“This girl opened the door. Teenager.”

“Tell me everything,” I said.

“So,” he said, “I knocked. This girl opened the door. Teenager. Pajama pants, messy bun. I asked for her dad.”

I pictured it as he talked.

“She yelled for him,” Ben went on. “Guy in his 50s comes to the door. I told him, ‘I’m here because of something your wife said at a funeral yesterday.'”

“She knew something was wrong right away.”

Ben swallowed. “I told him she said she’d had an affair with Greg. That her kids were Greg’s.”

I winced.

“He just… froze,” Ben said. “Then he yelled for Susan. She came out with a dish towel in her hand. Saw me. Saw him. She knew something was wrong right away.”

“What did she say?”

“She denied it,” he said. “Said I was lying. I told her I’d heard her with my own ears.”

“Why did she say she did it?”

“And then?”

“Her husband asked again,” Ben said. “He looked… broken. He said, ‘Did you tell people our kids aren’t mine?'”

Ben stared at the table.

“She snapped,” he said. “She yelled, ‘Fine, I said it, okay?'”