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I thought pulling over that afternoon was just basic human decency. An elderly woman in trouble, a moment of kindness, nothing more. But when my phone rang two days later, and my mom screamed about turning on the TV, I realized that one choice had set something in motion I never could’ve predicted.
My wife was the kind of person who made everything feel possible. We’d stay up late in the kitchen, talking about our daughter Nina’s future, planning vacations we’d take when she turned 16, laughing at inside jokes nobody else would understand.
My wife was the kind of person
who made
everything feel possible.
The grief hit in waves I wasn’t prepared for. I’d reach for my phone to text her something funny, then remember halfway through typing. I’d set two plates on the table before catching myself. Every corner of our home held memories that felt both precious and unbearably painful, and I had to learn how to exist in that space.
