By Olivia Harper • January 28, 2026 • Share
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.
“You can file a report,” he said, sliding a clipboard toward me. “That’s it? Don’t you have cameras or something?” I asked. He shook his head. “Not in the newer sections. Sorry.” I filed the report anyway, but deep down, I knew it wouldn’t help.
The third time I found eggs, I cried. I didn’t even try to hide it. It wasn’t just the mess, it was the feeling that someone was targeting Owen, even in death. “What do you want from him?” I shouted into the empty cemetery. My voice echoed back at me.
I couldn’t sleep the night before the anniversary of his death. Memories of Owen kept swirling in my mind. I could hear his laugh and feel the way he used to hold my hand when we walked. By 5 a.m., I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my coat and decided to go to the cemetery.
The sun wasn’t up yet, and the world felt still. As I walked toward his grave, I stopped in my tracks. Eggshells. Fresh ones, scattered around. And a figure. They were standing by the stone, holding something in their hand. An egg. I froze, my breath catching in my throat.
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