I barely made it through the service that afternoon.
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Harold and I had been married for 62 years. We met when I was eighteen and married within the year. Our lives had become so connected that standing in that church without him felt less like ordinary grief and more like trying to breathe with half a lung.
My name is Rosa, and for six decades Harold had been the most constant presence in my life. Our sons stood close beside me, and I leaned on their arms as we slowly moved through the ceremony.
People were beginning to leave when I noticed her. A girl no older than twelve or thirteen, someone I didn’t recognize from any family or friend group. She moved carefully through the crowd and walked straight toward me.
“Are you Harold’s wife?” she asked.
“I am.”
She held out a simple white envelope.
