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<\/span><\/a><\/p>\nWe\u2019ve been married for five years. All those five years, I knew that my husband had been married before me and that his wife had died shortly before we met. I never went into details or asked too many questions \u2014 I thought the pain was still fresh and that it was hard for him to talk about it.<\/p>\n
But deep inside, I always had a strange feeling. Almost as soon as we started living together, I felt the urge to go to her grave. Not out of curiosity, but rather from a sense of inner duty. To ask her forgiveness for taking her place, for living with her husband and being happy. Maybe it\u2019s foolish, but it felt right to me.<\/p>\n
My husband was \u043a\u0430\u0442\u0435\u0433\u043e\u0440\u0438\u0447\u0435\u0441\u043a\u0438 against it. He didn\u2019t just try to talk me out of it \u2014 he literally begged me not to do it, became nervous, angry, changed the subject. At the time, I decided that he simply wasn\u2019t ready.<\/p>\n
The strangest part, however, was something else: he himself never went there. Not once. Not once a month, not once a year \u2014 never. Sometimes I even reminded him: \u201cMaybe we should go?\u201d, asked if he missed her, asked him to tell me at least something about her. But every time he answered evasively and confusingly, as if he were afraid to talk about it.<\/p>\n