My wife, Jenna, died two years ago.
It happened fast—far too fast for either of us to understand what was happening. One moment we were arguing over whether the kitchen cabinets should be painted white or blue. Six months later, I was sitting beside a hospital bed at two in the morning, listening to machines beep while I held her hand and begged the universe for more time.
Time didn’t come.
After the funeral, the house felt like a museum of memories. Her coffee mug on the counter. The half-finished grocery list on the fridge. The way the kitchen still smelled faintly like the vanilla candles she loved.