I’m fifty-five years old, and for the first time since I was nineteen, I don’t have anyone to call my husband.
Greg and I were married for thirty-six years. It wasn’t the kind of love people write poems about or post online with smiling photos and hashtags. Ours was quieter. Steadier. Built from grocery lists taped to the fridge, shared dentist appointments, and the way he always chose the seat closest to the aisle in restaurants—like he could physically block the world from getting to me.
That’s what made his death feel unreal.
One phone call. One accident on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. And suddenly I was standing in a funeral home, picking a casket lining as if fabric color mattered more than the fact that I could barely breathe.
By the morning of the funeral, I felt hollowed out. I’d cried until there were no tears left, until my face looked swollen and unfamiliar in the mirror.
The viewing had already started when I arrived.
Soft music floated through the chapel. People whispered. Hands touched my shoulder gently, carefully, like I might break.
And there he was.
