A normal life.
At least, that's what I thought.
With this man, nothing in my wife's life made sense.
Emily was a pediatric nurse.
She was a volunteer at the church.
He drove a silver van and prepared snacks for every school event.
His idea to break the rules was to order dessert before dinner.
But this biker was mourning her as if he had lost someone irreplaceable.
Sometimes, from my car, I could see his shoulders trembling.
Sometimes, before leaving, he would place a rough hand on his tombstone and hold it there for several seconds.
As if he were saying goodbye once again.
After three months, I couldn't take it anymore.
That Saturday, I got out of the car and walked towards him.
He heard my footsteps, but he didn't turn around.
His hand was still pressed against Emily's name.
"Excuse me," I said, my voice drier than I intended. "I'm Emily's husband. I think it's time you told me who you are."
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he slowly stood up, turned towards me, and looked like a man who had been waiting for this question for six months.
Finally, he said:
"Your wife was mine..."
