The funeral home had tied a black ribbon on our front door. I stared at it, my key suspended in the lock, wondering who’d thought that was necessary.

As if the neighbors didn’t already know that I’d been at the cemetery all afternoon, watching them lower my wife into the ground while Rev. Matthews talked about angels and eternal rest.

My hands shook as I finally got the door open. The house smelled wrong — like leather polish and sympathy casseroles.

Emily’s sister Jane had “helped” by cleaning while I was at the hospital during those final days. Now everything gleamed with an artificial brightness that made my teeth hurt.

“Home sweet home, right, Em?” I called out automatically, then caught myself. The silence that answered felt like a physical blow.

I loosened my tie, the blue one Emily had bought me last Christmas, and kicked off my dress shoes. They hit the wall with dull thuds.

Emily would have scolded me for that, pressing her lips together in the way she had, trying not to smile while she lectured me about scuff marks.

“Sorry, honey,” I muttered, but I left the shoes where they lay.

Our bedroom was worse than the rest of the house. Jane had changed the sheets — probably trying to be kind — but the fresh linen smell just emphasized that Emily’s scent was gone.

The bed was made with hospital corners, every wrinkle smoothed away, erasing the casual mess that had been our life together.

“This isn’t real,” I said to the empty room. “This can’t be real.”

But it was. The sympathy cards on the dresser proved it, as did the pills on the nightstand that hadn’t been enough to save her in the end.

It had all happened so suddenly. Em got sick last year, but she fought it. Chemotherapy took an immense toll on her, but I was there to support her every step of the way. The cancer eventually went into remission.

We thought we’d won. Then a check-up showed it was back, and it was everywhere.

Em fought like a puma right up until the end, but… but it was a losing battle. I could see that now.

I fell onto her side of the bed, not bothering to change out of my funeral clothes. The mattress didn’t even hold her shape anymore. Had Jane flipped it? The thought made me irrationally angry.

“Fifteen years,” I whispered into Emily’s pillow. “Fifteen years, and this is how it ends? A ribbon on the door and casseroles in the fridge?”

My eyes landed on our engagement photo, the silver frame catching the late afternoon light. Emily looked so alive in it, her yellow sundress bright against the summer sky, her laugh caught mid-burst as I spun her around.

I grabbed it, needing to be closer to that moment and the joy we both felt then.

“Remember that day, Em? You said the camera would capture our souls. Said that’s why you hated having your picture taken, because—”

My fingers caught on something behind the frame.

There was a bump under the backing that shouldn’t have been there.

I traced it again, frowning. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I pried the backing loose. Something slipped out, floating to the carpet like a fallen leaf.

My heart stopped.

It was another photograph, old and slightly curved as if it had been handled often before being hidden away.

In the photo, Emily (God, she looked so young) was sitting in a hospital bed, cradling a newborn wrapped in a pink blanket.

Her face was different than I’d ever seen it: exhausted, and scared, but with a fierce love that took my breath away.

I couldn’t understand what I was looking at. Although we tried, Emily and I were never able to have kids, so whose baby was this?

With trembling fingers, I turned the photo over. Emily’s handwriting, but shakier than I knew it: “Mama will always love you.”

Below that was a phone number.

“What?” The word came out as a croak. “Emily, what is this?”

There was only one way to find out.