When I leaned over my husband’s body to fix his hair before the viewing, I discovered something I had never seen in 42 years of marriage — a small tattoo hidden just under his hairline.

The numbers looked like coordinates. By the next morning, they would lead me to a storage unit — and to a secret he had kept from me for more than three decades.

I’m 67 years old. I was married to Thomas for 42 years, and I believed I knew every scar, every freckle, every detail of the man I shared my life with.

I was wrong.

I only realized it after he died, when the funeral home allowed me a few private minutes to say goodbye before the viewing began.

The funeral director quietly closed the door behind me and said, “Take all the time you need.”

Thomas lay in the navy suit he had worn to our son Daniel’s graduation — one of the happiest days of our lives. I had chosen that suit because I wanted him dressed in something that reminded me of better times.

His hands were folded neatly. His face was calm.