Burying my wife, Claire, left me with just pictures and echoes of her laugh. That night, a hidden find behind our engagement shot turned my grief upside down. A dark ribbon marked our door when I stumbled home from her service—somebody’s idea of solemnity. I wrestled the lock, stepping into a space too clean, reeking of wax and donated pies, not her citrus scent. Claire’s sister, Beth, had tidied while I’d watched machines beep out her last days—now it shone, sterile, wrong.
“Hey, Claire-bear, I’m back,” I said, then froze at the stillness. I tugged off my tie—she’d nabbed it for me last spring—and flung my shoes, thudding the wall. She’d have faked a frown, giggling inside. “My bad,” I muttered, not moving them. Our bedroom hit harder—Beth’s neat bedding wiped away Claire’s messy charm, the air too fresh. “This isn’t right,” I told the void. Cards and pill bottles glared back, proof it was. Claire got sick last year—chemo wrecked her, but we pushed through. It vanished, then crashed back, everywhere. She battled fierce, but lost. I collapsed on her side, suit and all—the bed didn’t even dip like hers anymore.
“Fifteen years,” I sighed into her pillow, “and it’s over?” My eyes caught our engagement frame—her in blue, spinning, radiant. I grabbed it, aching for that happiness. “You dodged pics, said they nabbed your spirit,” I smiled, then felt something odd behind it. I pried it loose—a worn photo fell. My chest seized—Claire, so young, in a hospital, holding a baby, her face raw but glowing. “Mama loves you forever,” her shaky script read, with a number. We’d longed for kids, struck out—whose was this? I dialed, shaky, past midnight. “Hello?” a voice answered, gentle. “I’m Mike—found Claire with a baby, this number,” I blurted. A pause, then, “Mike, it’s Anna. Claire’s passed?” “Today,” I said, hollow. “I raised her daughter, Sophie,” she breathed.
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