My partner has a more robust genetic background than I do. His family history shows minimal traces of cancer and boasts two very healthy parents. In contrast, my lineage, while resilient, presents a mixed bag of health issues and a tendency toward shorter lifespans—albeit filled with laughter and good times. Our family gatherings involve wakes where humor and drinks flow freely.
As a woman in her forties, I don’t fit the mold of those Florida grandmothers who outlive their spouses by decades, often spending more time as widows than wives. I feel a sense of relief knowing I won’t be facing a long, lonely existence in a carpeted condo because, quite simply, I’ll be long gone.
While I take comfort in the thought that I’ll likely depart this world before my partner does, it raises a complicated question: what will happen to him after I’m no longer here? I want him to have companionship, but the thought of him with another woman is hard to fathom.
It was during a visit to a cemetery that we stumbled upon a solution.
Both my partner and I enjoy exploring graveyards. As writers and storytellers, we find ourselves drawn to the dramatic narratives of lives once lived. The stories of love, loss, and mystery compel us to return.
Recently, standing in front of a family plot filled with poignant history, I made a promise to my partner: if he ever remarries after my death, I would haunt him. I distinctly remember saying, “Honey, if you get lonely and start dating some widow in capris, I will definitely haunt you.” He laughed but was equally serious in his response: “Oh, I know. I KNOW you will.” It seemed my declaration filled him with pride.
He then proceeded to poetically express that I was the only person he would ever love and that he couldn’t envision life without me—why would he even want to try? He painted a vivid picture of a lonely existence, channeling Westley from The Princess Bride as he declared, “I shall never love again.”
Delighted, I responded, “Great! Because otherwise, I’ll rattle my chains next to you for eternity and make things quite chaotic.”
Let me clarify: I feel a twinge of shame for the darkly humorous threat I made regarding my beloved partner should he find solace with another woman. I envision him sitting in bereavement group meetings, sipping coffee and consuming plain donuts, his physique no longer a priority since his attractive wife has passed away.
I recognize that my feelings reveal some troubling aspects of my character. I know my parents would be appalled by my selfishness. Ideally, I should want him to find someone who will love and support him. I have absorbed plenty of wisdom about compassion from movies, literature, and even Catholic schooling.
Yet, as we stood among those aged gravestones, it pained me to imagine him sharing tender moments, like falling asleep hand-in-hand under the covers, with someone else. For instance, what if, as he reaches for Martha’s hand from the bereavement group, he realizes, “Wow, I was holding hands with a lobster claw for 40 years, and now look at this—Martha and I have these soft, intertwined hands! It was just Renee’s time.” The idea of haunting him became a necessity.
As we continued our stroll, we brainstormed how he might occupy his days and nights after my gravestone was in place. Should he take up escorting? Maybe arts and crafts at the senior center? Or perhaps painting seashells? Ultimately, we arrived at a more inspired conclusion: we would choose a friend of mine that he could marry. This way, I could keep an eye on things from the afterlife.
We went through a list of potential candidates.
- Her? She’d drag him camping all the time.
- What about her? She’d work multiple jobs, be endlessly patient, and cook eight meals a day, causing him to gain weight.
- How about this one? She’d want to relocate to Barcelona, which wouldn’t sit well with our kids.
- Oh, her! She would foster children and travel with a group of special-needs adults, making my life seem insignificant. Absolutely not—cross her off.
This process appealed to my controlling side and the fact that none of my dear friends would tarnish my legacy since they’d know how awesome I was in life. My partner, too, found solace in this plan, especially since I have many attractive friends. Two in particular, with those big, Hollywood smiles he admires, kept popping up in our conversation. Those two will do, thank you very much.
Ultimately, I chose a friend I deeply adore. I picked her because we share a cosmic connection, and she knows both of us intimately. She’s one of my partner’s favorite people and already has love for him, which means she understands me completely. If her spouse were to meet the same unfortunate fate as I do one day, I fully support my partner pursuing a relationship with her. It all feels so right. And even if I choose to rattle my chains and create a little mischief, she would welcome me back with open arms—she’d understand.
Here lies Lila Monroe, they can inscribe on my stone. Wife, mother, friend. I haunt out of love.
If you found this article engaging, check out our other post on at-home insemination kits for more insights. For those interested in personal stories, this piece offers a heartfelt perspective on navigating loss and welcoming new beginnings. And if you want to learn more about the process of artificial insemination, this wiki page is an excellent resource.
Summary
In a light-hearted yet poignant reflection on mortality and love, Lila Monroe explores the complexities of relationships after death. With humor and sincerity, she discusses the idea of choosing a friend for her partner to marry after she passes, highlighting the emotional intricacies of love, loss, and companionship.