Said aloud, it seems almost unbelievable, as if an entire life had belonged to someone else. But it belonged to Walter and me. It was our life.

That thought stuck with me as I sat in the chapel looking at his coffin, my hands clasped in my lap.

When you share so many birthdays, winters, and ordinary mornings with someone, you begin to think you recognize every sound: the way they sigh, the way they walk across the floor, even the pauses between their words.

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 rested on the same chair every Sunday afternoon.

I thought I understood every important aspect of his personality.

But sometimes love jealously guards certain memories. And sometimes those hidden fragments resurface only when it’s too late to question them.