Madam, You've Got the Wrong Grave

My husband, who loved visiting brothels and keeping concubines, died in one. For the sake of his family’s wealth, I dutifully mourned him for two years. When the anniversary of his death came around again, I laid out fruit and incense before his grave and began to weep bitterly. Then a voice drifted from behind the tombstone: “Madam, I think you’re crying at the wrong grave.”