The Widow In the Back

Emily:

I glanced around, hoping to find a seat near the back, where I could sit with a family, and hopefully be mistaken for a cousin. Blend in. I didn’t want anyone noticing the woman who came alone to a married man’s funeral.

But I wasn’t single, was I? Brian and I had been in a relationship for 7 years. But no one here knew that.

No one here knew the kind of loss I carried. I felt untethered.

I suppose his wife is feeling the same way.

Can I be considered a widow?

She wouldn't think so.

I still don’t know what happened, exactly how he died. We talked on Saturday afternoon, a conversation I‘ve replayed, looking for a clue to what may have happened to him. He told me about a party they were supposed to attend that night, one he was already dreading.

I told him about my evening ahead, having friends over for a book club and dinner. No “I love you” as we ended our call, more out of routine caution than anything else. I knew he loved me.

He did not return my texts Sunday, and my imagination started to spiral. I knew he would never end it like this. Not without letting me know. Maybe it had to do with his wife. Maybe his wife knew, and everything had finally unraveled.

On Monday he didn’t show up to work. We worked in the same building — that’s how we met — and when I didn’t see his car in the lot, I knew something was wrong.

I checked the local news for car accidents, shootings, anything that might mention his name or match his description.

Nothing.

Brian did not have social media, but his wife did. I had blocked her years ago, worried Facebook or Instagram would someday decide to suggest me as a friend.

I unblocked her and opened her page. Jill Keller. Thankfully, it was public.

Nothing.

I blocked her again. Ten minutes later, I unblocked her and checked again. Still nothing.

Then on Wednesday, I checked her page, and my heart broke into a million pieces.

“I’m so sorry to hear about Brian. He will be missed. Let us know if you need anything.”

Those little phrases on a social media page mean only one thing.

I did not want to believe it was true, but I already knew. Still, I needed someone to say it plainly. What happened? How did he die?

I refreshed obituary pages over and over when nothing appeared. I read every comment on his wife’s Facebook page like it contained a hidden message. I was desperate for one detail that might explain what happened to him.

Then, late Wednesday afternoon, it finally appeared.

Brian Matthew Keller, 47, of Springfield, passed away unexpectedly on March 14

Brian was a devoted husband, son, and friend who will be remembered for his quiet nature, strong work ethic, and unwavering dedication to those he loved. He spent over twenty years working in commercial construction management, where he was respected for his precision, reliability, and attention to detail.

Outside of work, Brian found joy in woodworking and could often be found in his workshop building custom cabinetry, furniture, and handcrafted skateboards for friends and family. He took pride in creating things that would last.

Brian is survived by his loving wife, Jill; his parents, David and Elaine Keller; and many extended family members and lifelong friends.

A visitation will be held Wednesday from 4–7 p.m. at Harper Funeral Home, with services Thursday at 11 a.m.

Brian will be deeply missed by all who knew and loved him.

Seeing his name in obituary font made my chest tighten. I don’t know what to say and it is probably a good thing since I have no one I can talk to. No one knows about us. I never told my friends or my parents about Brian. How could I?

Hey Emily, Are you seeing anyone?

Oh yeah, I’ve been seeing this great guy. He’s so smart, creative, and he is gorgeous. And he is married too!

I find myself sitting next to a woman in her 40’s who is next to a man who looks to be about the same age. The church is filling up. A young woman, I think a cousin of Brian’s, is playing the violin when they bring in the casket. Jill is walking closely with a woman who is undeniably her mother.

Brian’s business partner spoke.

“He was a quiet man, steady and dependable in a world that rarely slows down.”

As he scanned the room, his eyes landed briefly on mine. He had seen Brian and me talking before, passing each other in the parking lot or lingering too long outside the elevators, but never enough, I hoped, to make him suspicious.

Suddenly, I felt exposed.

Had anyone else from our building come? Surely people from Brian’s office were here, though I didn’t know most of them. Was it obvious I did not belong with the rest of the mourners? Obvious that I belonged to him anyway?

I glanced around for familiar faces, trying to appear casual, careful not to draw attention to myself.

I close my eyes, and imagine Brian’s face close to mine, our lips touching. I squeeze my eyes, holding in warm tears. I need to make it through the next few hours, then I can be alone again.

Jill:

My mom stood close to me, asking every other minute if I was ok. I nodded, smiled with tight lips and tired eyes. No, I am not fucking ok, I wanted to yell at her. I am exhausted. I am tired of talking to people. I want to get out of this dress and these heels and go home and get cozy. I don't want to talk to anyone else, and I want to ignore my phone for the next several weeks.

Oh and I lost my husband.

Surprisingly, that is the least of what is bothering me. Honestly, it is kind of a relief that he is gone.

Who can I say this to though, without sounding unhinged?

Last fall, we “celebrated” our sixteenth wedding anniversary. Neither of us acknowledged the date until a card arrived from his mother, two cartoon peas cuddled together on the front.

“Happy Anniversary to a perfect pair.”

Brian set the card on the kitchen counter beside the mail and never mentioned it again.

I don’t think we should have gotten married. We started dating in college and stayed together because that’s what everyone expected. When I confessed my doubts to my mother once, she waved them away.

“Opposites attract,” she said.

As if that explained everything.

Over the years, he started to drive me crazy. His quietness most of all. He is — he was — an only child, and sometimes it felt like he had spent his whole life learning how to keep things to himself.

At first, I admired his attention to detail, his routines, and the careful way he moved through the world. Eventually, his rigidity started to feel like punishment. Everything had to be done his way, on his timeline, according to rules only he understood.

Even the way he breathed while he slept irritated me enough to send me to the guest room. I told myself I preferred sleeping alone, but maybe I just preferred being away from him.

The year before Covid, I had a brief affair. A younger guy at my firm started flirting with me. At first, I was just flattered. He was ten years younger and could have had his pick of the gorgeous twenty-somethings in the office.

We ended up working on the same project, and before I knew it, I was sneaking around with a twenty-six-year-old, spending random weekday afternoons in his apartment that smelled like cologne and takeout, feeling younger and more wanted than I had in years.

The first day after Brian’s death, I was numb. In a daze. But as the hours passed, a strange peace settled over the house and over me.

I just need to get through the next few hours. Then everyone will go home, and the silence will belong to me again.