No signature, no return address. Just a white envelope in the mailbox, and inside a few lines written in block letters: don’t go to your husband’s funeral. Better check on your sister’s house.
She’s not alone. I stood on the porch in the black dress I bought three days ago, rereading those words over and over. My hands were shaking.
Not from the cold, from something else. From that feeling when you realize the world is about to turn upside down. But you don’t know how yet.
My first thought was simple: someone decided to play a joke. A cruel joke on the worst day of my life. Someone thought it funny to add pain to pain.
I almost threw the letter in the trash can. Almost. But something stopped me.
The phrase was too specific. She’s not alone. Not check on your sister, or something’s wrong with Emily.
Exactly she’s not alone. As if the letter’s author knew precisely what was happening there. As if they had seen it.
I looked at my watch. Two hours left until the funeral. The car was already waiting by the house, black, with a driver in a dark suit.
Everything was ready. The casket, flowers, memorial lunch. Paul’s relatives were already gathering at the funeral home.
His mother called half an hour ago, asking why I hadn’t arrived yet. And I stood with that damned letter, unable to move. Emily lived five minutes’ walk away.
A small house she rented after her divorce. We weren’t especially close; the age difference was 13 years. Different interests, different lives.
But when she divorced two years ago, I gave her a spare key. Just in case. Anything could happen.
That key had been in my purse for two years. I’d almost forgotten about it. I shoved the letter in my pocket and walked to Emily’s house.
I walked fast, almost ran. Heels clicked on the pavement. One thought spun in my head: this is stupid, this is nonsense, I’ll be late for my own husband’s funeral because of someone’s dumb joke.
But my feet carried me onward. Emily’s house looked ordinary. White curtains on the windows, a small garden in front.
Nothing suspicious. I stopped at the gate and listened. Silence.
Maybe Emily was still asleep. She was always a night owl, went to bed late, got up late. I took out the key.
My hand shook as I inserted it into the lock. The door opened without a creak. In the hallway, it smelled of coffee and something else.
Men’s cologne. I froze. Emily hadn’t dated anyone for over a year.
She told me herself she was tired of men, wanted to live for herself. I took off my shoes and tiptoed down the corridor. Sounds came from the kitchen.
Someone was fiddling with dishes, turning on water, opening cabinets. Two people. I heard two voices, male and female.
My heart pounded so loud I was sure it could be heard throughout the house. I crept to the kitchen door and carefully peeked inside. What I saw didn’t fit in my head.
A man sat at the table with his back to me. Dark hair, broad shoulders. A familiar mole on his neck.
He was in casual clothes, a T-shirt and sweatpants. Emily stood at the stove cooking something. She was in a robe, barefoot, hair disheveled.
They looked like a couple who’d lived together for years. The man turned his head, and I saw his profile. It was Paul.
My husband. Who should have been lying in a casket. Whom I was burying in two hours.
He was alive. He sat in my sister’s kitchen drinking coffee as if nothing happened. I don’t remember how I breathed at that moment.
Don’t remember if I thought at all. My mind was empty, white noise like a broken TV. Emily approached him from behind and put her hands on his shoulders.
He covered her hand with his. Gently, habitually. Like people who’ve been together a long time.
I saw him turn his head and kiss her hand. Saw her lean down and kiss the top of his head. Saw their smiles, their ease, their closeness.
They were happy. At the moment when I was supposed to bury my husband. He sat in my sister’s kitchen and was happy.
I backed away from the door. Slowly, carefully. My legs wouldn’t obey, my knees were like cotton.
I reached the hallway, put on my shoes, left the house, and closed the door behind me. Stood at the gate and didn’t know what to do next. The world collapsed.
Just like that, collapsed in five minutes. Everything I believed in, everything I knew about my life, turned out to be a lie. Paul was alive.
Paul was with Emily. Paul betrayed me. But the worst wasn’t that.
The worst was that I didn’t know how long this had been going on. A week? A month? A year? Maybe they’d been together all this time while I grieved, while I planned the funeral, while I chose the casket and ordered the memorial lunch. Maybe they laughed at me.
I walked home. Slowly, like in a dream. People on the street looked at me strangely; I probably looked crazy.
A woman in a black dress walking nowhere, staring into emptiness. At home, the driver waited. He was smoking by the car and nervously glancing at his watch.
«Mary, we need to go,» he said when he saw me. «We’re already late.» I looked at him and couldn’t say a word.
How to explain I couldn’t go to the funeral of a husband who was alive? How to say it was all a spectacle where I played the fool? «Mary, are you okay?» The driver came closer. «Maybe you’re unwell? Should I call a doctor?»
I shook my head and went inside. Locked the door. Leaned my back against it and finally cried. Cried not from grief.
Cried from rage, from humiliation, from being made a fool. Cried from not knowing what to do next. The phone rang nonstop.
Paul’s mother, his brother, our mutual friends. All asking where I was, why I hadn’t come, what happened. I didn’t answer…
