When I laid my wife, Laura, to rest, all I had left were snapshots and fading echoes of her voice. That night, something slipped from our old engagement frame, and my world tilted. A black bow hung on our door when I got home from the cemetery, a grim marker someone thought fit. I fumbled the key, hands unsteady, stepping into a house that didn’t feel mine anymore. Laura’s sister, Meg, had scrubbed it spotless while I’d sat by hospital beds—now it smelled of bleach and pity meals, not her soft rose perfume.
“Back again, Lau?” I mumbled, then stopped, hit by the quiet. I yanked off my tie—the green one she’d picked last birthday—and tossed my shoes, letting them bang the wall. She’d have teased me for that, hiding a grin behind her fussing. “Oops, babe,” I whispered, leaving them there. Our room was the worst—Meg’s crisp sheets erased Laura’s warmth, the bed too perfect, like our life hadn’t been lived in it. “This isn’t us,” I said to no one. The cards and useless pills on the table screamed it was real, though.
Laura’s fight started a year back—chemo drained her, but I held her up. We thought we’d beat it when it faded, only for a scan to show it roaring back, unstoppable. She clawed ‘til the end, but it won. I sank into her spot, still in my black suit, the mattress flat—Meg must’ve turned it. “Fifteen years,” I breathed into her pillow, “and it’s just me now?” My gaze hit our engagement pic—her in a red dress, twirling, alive. I snatched it, craving that day’s light. “You hated cameras, said they stole bits of you,” I chuckled, then felt a lump under the back.
I popped it open, and a faded photo drifted down. My breath caught—it was Laura, young, in a hospital gown, cradling a baby girl, her eyes tired but fierce with love. “Mama will always love you,” she’d scrawled on the back, with a number. My mind spun—we’d tried for kids, failed every time. Who was this? I dialed, late as it was, heart pounding. “Hi?” a woman answered, soft but wary. “I’m Dan—found a picture of my wife, Laura, with a baby and this number,” I rasped. Silence, then, “Oh, Dan—I’ve waited for this. I’m Kate. Laura’s gone?” “Today,” I choked. “I adopted her girl, Rose,” she said, voice breaking.
The floor swayed. “She was nineteen, in college,” Kate went on. “She gave her up for a better shot—tore her apart.” Anger flared—I’d begged for kids, and she’d hid this? “She was scared you’d hate her,” Kate said. “She adored you.” I saw her now, clutching me past swings, eyes wet—not just for us, but for Rose. “Tell me about her,” I urged. “She’s twenty-five, teaches little ones—has Laura’s spark,” Kate beamed. “Want to meet her?” “Yes,” I said fast. Next day, I sat in a diner, coffee cold, when Rose walked in—Laura’s eyes, her shy smile. “Dan?” she asked. I stood, clumsy, “Rose.” She hugged me tight, like she’d always known me.
We talked forever—her life, Laura’s quiet check-ins through cards. “She never forgot me,” Rose sniffed. I saw it then—Laura’s silence wasn’t betrayal, but love, giving Rose a steady home. “I wish I’d known,” I said, holding her hand. “But I’ll be here now.” She grinned, “Again soon?” “Definitely,” I nodded, warmth creeping in. That night, I set the baby pic by our old one—Laura’s love in both. “You did it right,” I whispered. “I’ll keep it going.”
