After losing Arthur, I struggled to part with the things that reminded me of our thirty-six years together. Selling his couch felt like a small step forward. But I never imagined that decision would uncover a secret he’d kept for years, one that involved our family’s most painful memories.
The young man who bought my late husband’s couch returned the next morning with a package wrapped in yellowed tape.
“I think you should have your money back,” he said.
“Did the couch break already?”
“I think you should have your money back.”
“No, Monica. But I found something inside.”
He held out the package.
My name was written across it in Arthur’s handwriting.
My husband had been gone for six months.
“What is that?” I asked.
“I found something inside.”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Whatever he’d hidden inside our couch, he’d never told me about it.
And when I finally opened the package, I understood why.
***
For 20 years, I’d begged Arthur to replace that awful brown couch.
I understood why.
The middle sagged, the armrest had three patches, and getting up required a rocking motion that made me feel twice my age.
“Arthur, we’re buying a new couch.”
He’d pat the cushion beside him.
“This one makes you sit closer to me, Mon.”
The middle sagged.
“That’s because the springs are trying to swallow us.”
He’d laugh and pull me down beside him.
***
Arthur was my husband for 36 years.
He could fix almost anything. Unfortunately, he also believed everything deserved fixing.
Then Arthur died.
Arthur was my husband for 36 years.
And the couch I’d hated became the only place I could sleep.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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