I Returned Home from My Wife’s Funeral to Find a Baby Carriage on My Doorstep — I Went Pale at What I Found Inside

My name is Jasper and my wife, Emily, was unlike anyone else. She was that person everyone loved right away, you know? The type who’d remember your coffee order after meeting you once and would show up at your door with soup when you were sick.

We’d been together five years before tying the knot, but we wanted to wait until we were truly ready for the whole marriage and family thing.

After years, we’d finally gotten to that perfect spot in life. Good jobs, a house in the suburbs with a yard (Emily’s dream), and enough savings to start thinking about kids. We got straight to the task after our short honeymoon.

Emily had this whole timeline planned out.

“Look, if we start trying in March, the baby will come in winter!” she said excitedly while showing me her calendar one night as we sat on our porch swing. It was raining, her favorite weather.

“Then we could do one of those cute Christmas card announcements,” she continued.

I laughed and pulled her closer. “You’ve really thought this through, huh?”

“Someone has to plan ahead in this relationship,” she teased, poking my chest. “Remember when you tried to surprise me with that weekend trip but forgot to pack anything?”

I chuckled at the time. That was Emily. Always prepared, always thinking ahead. At one point, she’d turned our spare room into a home office but kept measuring it for a crib “just in case.”

She also had secret Pinterest boards full of nursery ideas that she thought I didn’t know about. Anyway, we were ecstatic about the future.

Then everything went sideways. What should have been a routine fertility appointment turned into a week of extra tests. I knew something was wrong when Dr. Grant’s office called to have us come in right away.

The waiting room was empty when we arrived, which should have been my first clue. But thankfully, Dr. Grant didn’t sugarcoat it. I hate being patronized or not being told the truth bluntly.

“The tests showed a seriously advanced cancer,” he said while folding his hands on his desk. “It’s aggressive, and it’s spread significantly. Stage 4.”

Emily’s hand found mine under the desk. Her fingers were ice-cold. “How long do we have?” she asked, and I knew her mind was already making plans.

“Without aggressive treatment, two months. Maybe three,” Dr. Grant said in a gentle voice, but he also sighed. “With treatment, we might buy some more time, just…”

Emily squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. “Okay,” she said, interrupting our doctor in that determined voice she used when facing tough projects at work. I knew she’d want to fight this. “We’d better get started.”

The next two months were hell, but Emily somehow kept smiling. She’d crack jokes during chemo, make friends with all the nurses, and help other patients pick out headscarves when their hair started falling out.

Even when I’d find her in the bathroom at 3 a.m., throwing up from the treatments, she’d try to have a good attitude. “Sorry I woke you,” she’d say, shushing me away. “Go back to bed, babe. You have work tomorrow.”

Like I could sleep anyway.

Unfortunately, positivity doesn’t work alone. The treatments did nothing for my wife’s illness. She got weaker and weaker, though I was just grateful that she never stopped being… Emily. She never let the cancer win.

In hospice, she made plans for everyone else. She had her sister Kate bring her laptop so she could order my favorite coffee beans in bulk because she knew I’d “forget to buy them yourself.”

She also made me promise to keep having game nights with our friends and tried to set up the only unmarried nurse on the cancer ward with her brother, Tony.

One night, near the end, she made me climb into the tiny hospital bed with her. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” I said, trying to be careful of all the tubes and wires.

“Promise you won’t shut yourself away when I’m gone. Promise you’ll still try to be happy.”

I couldn’t answer. How was I supposed to be happy without her? But I nodded and kept a poker face.

She died on a Tuesday morning. It was raining, which felt right somehow. The funeral was three days later.

I barely remember it. It was all just a blur of black clothes, sad faces, and people telling me how sorry they were. I couldn’t handle it after a while, so I left as soon as I could.

But when I got to my front porch, I froze. There, out of nowhere, was a bright pink baby carriage. My first thought was that this had to be some horrible and cruel joke. Who does that to someone on the day of their wife’s funeral?

Still, I walked over with shaking hands and looked inside. My heart nearly stopped. There wasn’t a baby (thank god, because what would I have done then?), but there was a thick envelope tucked into a soft white blanket.

I recognized Emily’s handwriting instantly and almost fell to my knees, and I even went pale as I pictured her preparing this.

“My dearest Jasper,

First of all, I’m sorry for being so dramatic with the whole baby carriage thing. I know you’re probably standing on the porch right now thinking, ‘What the hell, Emily?’ But I needed to make sure you’d pay attention.

When Dr. Grant told us about the cancer, I started making all the proper arrangements for the future, and I thought about this. Don’t freak out! I went to a fertility clinic and had some of my eggs frozen.

Everything is set up if and when you’re ready to move forward.

There’s even a surrogate picked out, this amazing woman named Natasha, who has two kids of her own. Kate has all the details, and she’ll help you through everything if you decide to do this.

I know this is huge. Maybe it’s too much, too soon. You don’t have to do anything with this if you don’t want to. I don’t want you to feel pressured or guilty.

But I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving you without at least giving you the choice to have the family we always wanted. Whatever you decide, know that I love you. I always will.

And Jasper? It’s okay to be happy again. To fall in love again.

Forever yours, Emily

P.S. If you do this, please don’t let our child wear those awful cargo shorts you love so much.”

My knees did give out, and I sat there, on my porch steps, for hours, reading and rereading the letter until it got too dark to see. That was Emily through and through.

She planned an entire future, knowing she wouldn’t be here, and still found a way to tease me after her death.

So, although I didn’t want to talk to anyone earlier, I called Kate, and she came over that night with pizza, beer, and all the documents I needed for my wife’s crazy idea.

“She made me promise not to tell you until today,” she said as we munched our food. “She wanted you to have time to grieve, but not to wallow in despair. She also made me promise to check on you today because she knew you’d need someone to talk to.”

“Did she think about everything?” I asked, staring at the stack of papers.

“Pretty much.” Kate smiled. “She even left me a schedule of when to bug you about doing laundry because she said you’d let it pile up for weeks.”

“How am I supposed to make this decision?” I asked as I picked up the fertility clinic brochure. “How do I know what’s right?”

Kate reached across and squeezed my hand. “Emily knew you’d figure it out. She always said you had the biggest heart of anyone she’d ever met.”

It took me almost two months to decide. I spent a lot of nights sitting in what would have been the nursery, looking at Emily’s Pinterest boards and talking to her photo.

Some nights, I was angry that she’d put this choice on me. Other nights, I was grateful she’d given me the option.

Once my decision was made, I met Natasha, the surrogate, in the spring. She was fantastic.

Kind, down-to-earth, with this calm energy that made everything feel less scary. Still, the process took some time. So it was almost a year later (just a week ago) that Natasha gave birth to my daughter, Lily.

As I write this, I’m sitting in the nursery, watching my baby sleep in her crib surrounded by little wooden foxes and deer. She has Emily’s nose and chin. Tomorrow, I’ll take her to meet her mom at the cemetery for the first time.

I know it’s silly, but I want to introduce them properly. I still miss Emily every day. Sometimes I’ll turn to tell her something about Lily and remember she’s not there.

Many times, I even feel insane for following this plan in the first place. But my wife knew what she was doing. Through our daughter, a part of her lives on. It’s a gift I’ll cherish and protect with my entire soul.

Here’s�another story:�The day we thought we lost our mother started with a heartbreaking phone call and ended with a shock none of us saw coming. What should have been a final goodbye turned into a moment that forced us to confront the painful distance we’d allowed to grow between us.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.