It was a large cemetery. The graves could easily be confused.
But then he returned the following Saturday.
And the next one.
And one more.
Week after week, this stranger mourned my wife as if she belonged to him too.
At first, I was confused.
Then I got angry.
Who was he?
How did he know Emily?
Why did this man show up every week when some members of his own family hardly ever came?
Emily had died fourteen months earlier from breast cancer.
He was only forty-three years old.
We had been married for twenty years.
Two children.
A peaceful home.
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