At my husband’s funeral, I thought the hardest part would be the silence after everyone left. I was wrong.
As the cemetery emptied, I noticed an elderly woman standing a few rows away. She wore a thin gray coat and held a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. I didn’t recognize her. She hadn’t left like the others. She just stood there, staring at my husband’s grave.
I approached her and asked who she was. Her eyes were tired, not afraid.
“To him?” she said quietly. “I was nobody.”
Then she looked down at the baby. “But this isn’t about me.”
She told me the child was my husband’s son. I laughed in disbelief, accused her of lying, told her to leave. She didn’t argue. She only said the baby’s mother had died and that she was too old to keep caring for him.
I said cruel things I regret. She listened, then walked away.
Moments later, I heard a soft cry. She had returned—but her arms were empty. The baby lay sleeping in a small basket nearby. She handed me an envelope and left.
Inside was a letter in my husband’s handwriting. He admitted his mistake. His fear. His regret. He ended with one plea: Please don’t let my son grow up feeling unwanted.
I sank beside the basket. The baby wrapped his tiny fingers around mine.
I didn’t forgive my husband that day.
But I picked up his son—and I took him home.
