I thought my marriage was perfect—until I came home from a week-long business trip and found our backyard transformed into a funeral setting. My funeral. There were flowers, somber music, mourners dressed in black… and my husband, Jake, greeting them like an open-casket host.
You know they say love makes people do crazy things—but holding your living wife’s funeral? That’s next-level drama.
Jake and I had been together six years. We met at a dinner party—his “dad jokes” won me over instantly. Six months later, he proposed at our favorite coffee shop. I said yes without a second thought.
We tried for a baby right after marriage. Each month brought another negative test until, two years in, we turned to fertility specialists. It was exhausting—and heartbreaking.
Family gatherings were the worst. “Have you tried those fertility herbs?” Aunt Susan prodded at every holiday. When my cousin announced her pregnancy at Thanksgiving, I excused myself and cried alone in the bathroom. Jake found me there and quietly asked if I wanted to escape to a diner. That was when I realized: his love was the only thing that made sense anymore.
But the backyard funeral? That broke me. What I thought was love felt like something I could no longer trust. As I opened the gate, heart pounding, confusion gave way to demand: Explain.
