Every Sunday, I visited my husband’s grave to feel close to him,

until I found raw eggs smashed against his gravestone. At first,

I thought it was a cruel prank, but when I caught the culprit in

the act, I was shattered to discover it was someone I trusted more than anyone else.

I lost my husband, Owen, one year ago. It was sudden. No warnings, no time to prepare.

A heart attack stole him from me, just like that. Twenty-five years together, gone in a moment.

For months, I felt like I was walking through fog. Everything hurt.

I tried to keep things together for our kids, but inside, I was crumbling.

Every Sunday, I’d visit his grave. It became my ritual, my way of feeling close to him.

The cemetery was peaceful. Quiet. Just me, Owen, and the flowers I brought each week.

It felt like I could breathe there. But three months ago, something changed.

The first time, I thought I was seeing things. Eggshells. Yellow yolk smeared across the base of Owen’s gravestone.

“Why would anyone do this?” I whispered to myself, crouching down to clean it.

I kept looking over my shoulder, thinking maybe it was just kids pulling a cruel prank.

I cleaned it, thinking it was a one-time thing. But two weeks later, it happened again.

This time, there were more eggs—at least six. Broken, dripping down

the stone. I cleaned it again, but my heart felt heavier.

I tried asking the cemetery staff for help.

“There’s been some vandalism at my husband’s grave,” I told the man at the desk. He looked bored, barely glancing up.