“Don’t go to your husband’s funeral. Check your sister’s house…” That’s the letter I got on the day we were burying my husband. I thought it was some sick joke, but I decided to stop by my sister’s place anyway—I had a key. And when I opened the door, I was stunned by what I saw…

“Don’t Go to Your Husband’s Funeral. You Should Check Your Sister’s House Instead.” She received…

That morning, the day of Patrick’s funeral, I got a letter. No name.

No return address. Just a plain white envelope in the mailbox. Inside, a few words typed in block letters, Don’t go to your husband’s funeral.

You should check your sister’s house. She’s not alone. I stood on the front porch in a black dress I’d bought three days ago, reading those lines over and over.

My hands were shaking. Not from the cold, something else. That feeling when you know your whole world is about to flip upside down, but you still don’t know how.

My first thought was simple, someone’s idea of a sick joke. A cruel prank on the worst day of my life. Someone thought it’d be funny to pile pain on top of pain.

I almost threw the letter straight in the trash. Almost. But something stopped me.

The words were too specific, she’s not alone. Not, check on your sister, or, something’s up with Brenda. No, it was, she’s not alone.

As if the writer knew exactly what was going on. As if they’d seen it. I checked the time.

Two hours until the funeral. The car was already waiting outside, a black one, with a driver in a dark suit. Everything was set.

The casket, the flowers, the reception. Patrick’s relatives were already gathering at the morgue. His mother had called half an hour ago, asking why I hadn’t arrived yet.

And I was just standing there, holding that damn letter, frozen in place. Brenda lived five minutes away. A tiny house she’d rented after the divorce.

We weren’t that close, 13 years between us, different interests, different lives. But when she split from her husband two years ago, I gave her a spare key. Just in case.

You never know. That key had been sitting in my purse ever since. I’d nearly forgotten it was there.

I shoved the letter in my pocket and headed for Brenda’s house. Walked fast, almost ran. My heels clicked against the pavement.

One thought kept looping in my mind, this is nonsense, this is insane, I’m going to miss my husband’s funeral because of someone’s stupid prank. But my legs kept going. Brenda’s place looked normal.

White curtains on the windows, a little garden out front. Nothing seemed off. I stopped at the gate and listened.

Silence. Maybe she was still asleep. She always stayed up late, slept in even later.

I pulled out the key. My hand trembled as I slid it into the lock. The door opened smoothly, without a creak.

The hallway smelled like coffee, and something else. Men’s cologne. I froze.

Brenda hadn’t dated anyone in over a year. She told me herself she was done with men, that she just wanted to focus on herself. I slipped off my shoes and tiptoed down the hallway.

I could hear sounds coming from the kitchen, someone moving dishes, running water, opening cabinets. Two people. I could hear two voices, one male, one female.

My heart was pounding so loud I was sure the whole house could hear it. I crept up to the kitchen door and peeked inside. What I saw didn’t make sense.

A man was sitting at the table with his back to me. Dark hair, broad shoulders, a familiar mole on his neck. He was in a t-shirt and sweatpants, just lounging at home.

Brenda was by the stove, cooking something. She wore a robe, barefoot, her hair a mess. They looked like a couple who’d lived together for years.

Then the man turned his head, and I saw his face. It was Patrick. My husband.

The man who was supposed to be in a coffin. The man I was meant to bury in two hours. He was alive.

He was sitting in my sister’s kitchen, drinking coffee like nothing had ever happened. I don’t remember how I was breathing in that moment. I don’t even know if I was thinking at all.

My head was just noise, white static, like on a broken TV screen. Brenda walked up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. He covered her hand with his, gently, like it was second nature.

Like something two people do when they’ve been together a long time. I saw him turn and kiss her hand. I saw her lean down and kiss the top of his head.

I saw their smiles, their comfort, their closeness. They were happy. At the very moment I was supposed to be burying my husband, he was sitting in my sister’s kitchen, happy.

I stepped back from the door. Slowly. Carefully…