It was a large cemetery. It was easy to mistake the graves for one another.
But he returned the following Saturday.
And the next one.
And one last one.
Week after week, this stranger mourned my wife as if she belonged to him too.
At first, I was confused.
So I got angry.
Who was he?
How did he know Emily?
Why did this man come every week when some members of his own family almost never came?
Emily had died fourteen months earlier from breast cancer.
He was only forty-three years old.
We had been married for twenty years.
Two children.
A peaceful home.
