I knew Walter’s habits by heart. I knew how he liked his coffee, how he checked the back door every night before bed, and how his church coat always rested on the same chair every Sunday afternoon.
I believed I understood every part of him that mattered.
But sometimes love carefully tucks certain memories away. And sometimes those hidden pieces only appear when it’s too late to ask about them.
The funeral itself was small, just as Walter would have preferred. A few neighbors offered quiet condolences. Our daughter Ruth dabbed gently at her eyes, pretending no one noticed.
I nudged her softly. “Careful, sweetheart. You’ll ruin your makeup.”
She sniffed. “Sorry, Mama. Dad would tease me if he saw.”
Read more on the next page >>
For more detailed instructions, please click the button below (>) and follow us on Facebook.
