When I Visited My Fiancé’s Grave, Pregnant and Alone, I Found a Strange Phone — I Blacked Out After Picking It Up
When my fiancé died suddenly, I thought my world had ended. Then I heard his voice calling me from beyond the grave. What I hoped was a miracle soon became a terrifying nightmare, leading me to a truth I never imagined.
I always dreamed of having a family. Growing up in foster homes, I would watch other kids get picked up by their parents, holding hands and laughing. I’d read books about loving families and wonder if they were real. Was there a place where people cared that much about each other?
Then I met Robert. He was everything I ever wanted in a person—kind, funny, and loving. But more than that, he had this big, warm family. From the moment I met them, they welcomed me in like I belonged. Sunday dinners at his parents’ house were something I’d only seen in movies.
“Pass the potatoes, honey,” Robert’s mom would say, her eyes soft and warm. She’d smile at me like I was her own daughter.
Robert’s dad, a tall, sturdy man with a booming laugh, would wink at me from across the table. “Another slice of pie? Don’t tell your mother, but I saved you an extra piece.” He’d slide the plate over with a grin.
These moments felt like a dream. I’d never had this—a family who cared, who laughed together, who made me feel safe. And with Robert, it was more than I ever dared to hope for. He loved me in a way I thought only existed in fairy tales.
Then, one evening, as we sat on a bench in the park, Robert took my hands in his. His eyes sparkled with excitement.
“I have something to ask you,” he said, his voice trembling just a bit.
“What is it?” I asked, feeling my heart race.
He took a deep breath and pulled out a small, blue velvet box. “Will you marry me?”
Tears filled my eyes as I whispered, “Yes, yes, yes!”
Soon after, I found out I was pregnant. Twins. We were thrilled. We talked for hours about baby names, about the kind of parents we would be.
But then, everything changed.
It was a Thursday afternoon when I got the call. Robert had been in an accident. My hands shook as I drove to the hospital, praying, begging whatever powers existed to let him be okay. But when I arrived, a doctor met me with a somber expression.
“I’m so sorry,” he said gently. “There was nothing we could do.”
The days that followed were a blur. Robert’s parents arranged everything so quickly. The funeral was over almost as soon as it began. I stood at the back, watching as they lowered him into the ground. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I wanted to scream, to cry, but I felt paralyzed, like I was stuck in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
After the service, I found Robert’s mom in the church hall. Her eyes were red and puffy. She looked at me with a kind of sadness I’d never seen before.
“Why didn’t you let me see him?” I asked, my voice shaking. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “He was… he wasn’t himself. I couldn’t let you see him like that. It would have been too hard.”
Weeks passed, and I found myself drawn to the cemetery more and more. It became a ritual, my way of keeping him close. I would sit by his grave and talk to him, tell him about the twins, about how much I missed him.
One afternoon, I was kneeling by his headstone, whispering about the latest baby kicks, when I heard it—a faint ringing. It was so out of place in the silence that it made my skin prickle.
I looked around, my heart pounding. Then I saw it—a phone, lying in the grass, right by Robert’s grave. My breath caught as I reached for it. It looked ordinary, but something about it felt off, like it shouldn’t be there.
I picked it up, and my heart almost stopped when I saw the caller ID.
