I had just gone through my second divorce and decided relationships werent for me anymore. I didnt want anyone close, deliberately making myself as unapproachable as possible. Perhaps I was trying to shield myself from any more emotional risk. But then I met her. She left an unforgettable impression on me. From that night on, we were together, and neither of us could have imagined how profoundly our lives would change.
We spent seventeen years side by side. She wasnt just my wifeshe was my best friend. Her energy, wit, strength, and sensitivity amazed me every day. She was always there, standing by me through every hardship, knowing just how to lift my spirits in the darkest moments. We laughed together, dreamed of the future, built little traditions that became woven into the fabric of our lives.
When the doctors diagnosed her with cancer, we knew the fight would be brutal. She battled it for eighteen monthscourageously, stubbornly, never breaking. But the disease was too aggressive. Three months ago, we lost her. The wound is still fresh, carried in my heart every single day.
What keeps me afloat is our child. Were incredibly close, and its through them that I find the strength not to drown in grief. Being a parent is a giftone that anchors me, keeping me from sinking into despair. When I see their smile, their wonder at the world, their small hand in mine, I remember my life still has meaning.
From the moment it became clear my wife wouldnt be coming home, I tried to prepare myself for the loss. I imagined how Id manage alone, how Id cope without her. You can brace yourself for the big moments, but its the little thingsthe everyday absencesthat cut deepest.
Theyre simple, almost silly things. Like how we always watched *Antiques Roadshow* together on Sundays. Wed sit on the sofa, guessing the value of each piece, laughing. Now I watch it alone, the emptiness beside me a constant ache. No one to argue over an appraisal, no shared amusement. Every episode is a fresh reminder of whats missing.
And then theres bedtime. You can clutch a dozen pillows, try to recreate the warmth, but nothing replaces the real thingthe weight of her presence, the quiet comfort of her breathing. Some nights, the cold space beside me feels like a physical wound.
But despite it all, I keep going. I find joy in small thingsin the sound of our childs laughter, in quiet walks through London, in the little rituals Ive made to feel her near. I refuse to forget our life together, the love we sharedreal, fierce, and still giving me strength to move forward.
Being a parent is my purpose now, my anchor and my drive. Their smile, their arms around me, their endless curiositythese are what keep me standing even when my heart splinters. Ive learned to find meaning in the moment, to cherish each day, knowing how easily anyone can be taken.
I never thought Id survive a loss like this. But my love for our child, my memories of her, the life we builtthey make me stronger. Ive realized life doesnt end with the person we lose. It continues in what we pass onin how we love, in how we care, in the stories we keep alive.
And when the dark thoughts come, I hold on. Because our love hasnt vanishedits just changed shape. Its in our child, in the quiet corners of our home, in the music of a heart that remembers. And thats enough to make me believe I can keep livinghonouring what was real, carrying her forward with me.
