They say grief does strange things to a person. When I buried my husband I said my final goodbyes, wondering if I could ever truly let him go. Four months later, I see him stepping onto a train. It can’t be true but there he is, running a hand through his dark hair, disappearing amongst the commuters before I can reach him. It’s the husband I buried. No one believes me but I know my husband. But if he is alive, who did I bury? And why would the man I loved let me believe he was dead? Either I’m going crazy, or my whole marriage was a lie.
