My Husband’s Coffin Was Still in the Room When She Revealed the Truth (3 of 3)

The baby stirred, a tiny whimper slipping into the heavy silence. I staggered back, clutching the pew for balance.

The woman didn’t press closer. She didn’t beg for my forgiveness. She only looked at me one last time, her eyes heavy with things unsaid, before turning toward the door.

Her footsteps echoed down the aisle—the same path my husband’s coffin had traveled only hours before.

By the time I found my voice, she was gone. The baby, the truth, the life I’d never known about—gone with her.

Now, late at night, when grief should be dulling but isn’t, I ask myself: was that baby really his? Or was it some cruel performance staged by a stranger? But deep down, I know. The way she looked at me. The way the child’s tiny nose mirrored his.

He left me with more than a grave. He left me with a secret I may never outrun.