WRONG MARRIAGE..

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We were at my father's funeral, standing by his casket during the viewing. I was barely holding it together - Dad and I had been incredibly close, and losing him felt like losing half of myself.

The whole day had been a blur of condolences and memories. People kept telling me how proud he was of me, how he'd brag about his son to anyone who'd listen. It was the kind of thing that should have been comforting, but it just made the hole in my chest feel bigger.

My wife was standing next to me in her black dress, looking appropriately somber. But I'd noticed something strange all week - while I'd been falling apart, she seemed almost... relieved. Like Dad's death had lifted some burden off her shoulders.

During the wake planning, when I'd broken down crying over choosing his favorite hymn, she'd actually seemed irritated. When I'd asked her to help me write his eulogy, she'd said she "didn't really know him that well" - despite five years of marriage and countless family dinners.

An elderly woman approached us - one of Dad's old coworkers from the factory where he'd spent thirty years. I recognized her from the stories Dad used to tell about the plant.

She took my hands and said, "Your father talked about you constantly. He was so proud when you got married. He said he finally didn't have to worry about you being alone anymore because you'd found someone who truly loved you."

I felt my wife stiffen beside me.

The woman continued, "He told me just last month that he could see how much she adored you. Said it was written all over her face whenever she looked at you. He even said he'd never seen a woman look at a man the way she looked at you."

I glanced at my wife, expecting to see her touched by this sweet memory of my father's words.

Instead, she was staring at the floor, her jaw clenched tight. Her hands were actually trembling.

The woman kept going, "He was so grateful you'd found each other. Said he used to worry you'd end up with someone who didn't appreciate what a good man you are. But he told me your wife made him feel like his boy was finally, truly cherished."

After the woman walked away, I whispered to my wife, "That was nice, what she said about Dad noticing how much you love me."

My wife looked up at me with this expression I'd never seen before - like she was annoyed that she had to be there. Like she was trapped.

She leaned close and whispered back, "Your dad was seeing things that weren't there."

I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She glanced around to make sure no one could hear us. Her voice was cold, clinical. "He kept telling me how lucky I was to have found you. How he could tell I was head-over-heels in love. It was exhausting pretending to agree with him."

The words hit me like physical blows.

"Pretending?"

She looked me dead in the eye and said, "I don't love you. I never have. I married you because you were safe and stable, and I thought that would be enough. Your father spent five years gushing about a love story that only existed in his head."

I stared at her, waiting for her to say she was joking, or that grief was making her say crazy things.

But she just stood there, looking relieved, like she'd finally gotten something heavy off her chest.

"You're telling me this now? At my father's funeral?"

She shrugged. "You asked."

I looked down at my father's peaceful face in the casket, thinking about how happy he'd been at our wedding, how he'd pulled me aside and told me he'd never seen me smile the way I smiled when I looked at her.

He died thinking I was loved.

And I realized I'd rather have him die with that beautiful lie than live knowing the truth I was learning right now.