A normal life.
At least, that's what I thought.
Nothing in my wife's life made sense with this man.
Emily had been a pediatric nurse.
She was a volunteer at the church.
He drove a silver van and prepared snacks for every school event.
His idea of breaking the rules was to order dessert before dinner.
But this biker mourned her as if he had lost someone irreplaceable.
Sometimes, from my car, I could see his shoulders trembling.
Sometimes, before leaving, he would place a rough hand on his gravestone and hold it there for several seconds.
As if he were saying goodbye again.
By the third month, I couldn't stand it anymore.
That Saturday, I got out of the car and walked towards him.
He heard my footsteps, but he didn't turn around.
Her hand was still pressed against Emily's name.
"Excuse me," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "I'm Emily's husband. I think it's time you told me who you are."
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he stood up slowly, turned towards me, and looked like a man who had been waiting six months for that question.
Finally, he said:
"Your wife was my..."
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