I was 55 years old, newly widowed after 36 years of marriage, when something I discovered at my husband’s funeral made me question whether I had ever truly known the man I loved. For the first time since I was 19, I no longer had anyone to call “my husband.” His name was Greg—Raymond Gregory on every form, but simply Greg to me. Then, on a rainy Tuesday, a truck didn’t stop in time. One phone call, one rushed trip to the hospital, one doctor saying, “I’m so sorry,” and my life split into Before and After. We had been married for...
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