I had just gone through my second divorce and decided relationships werent for me anymore. I didnt want anyone close, deliberately making myself as unappealing as possible to those around me. Perhaps I was trying to shield myself from any emotional risk. But then, I met her. She left an unforgettable impression. From that night on, we were together, though neither of us could have imagined just how profoundly our lives would change.
We shared seventeen years. She wasnt just my wifeshe was my best friend. Her energy, her sharp mind, her strength, and her sensitivity amazed me every single day. She stood by me through everything, lifting my spirits even in the darkest moments. We laughed together, dreamed of the future, built little traditions that became the fabric of our lives.
When the doctors diagnosed her with cancer, we knew the fight would be brutal. She battled for eighteen monthsfiercely, courageously, never broken. But the disease was relentless. Three months ago, I lost her. The wound is still raw, a constant weight in my chest.
What keeps me afloat is our son. Were incredibly close, and hes the reason I havent drowned in grief. Fatherhood is a gift, grounding me, refusing to let me sink into despair. Seeing his smile, his wonder at the world, his quiet trust in meit reminds me my life still has meaning.
From the moment I knew she wouldnt be coming home, I tried to prepare myself for the loss. I imagined doing things alone, coping without her. You can brace yourself for the big moments, but its the small, everyday absences that gut you.
The simplest things hurt the most. We always watched *Antiques Roadshow* together on Sundays, curled up on the sofa, guessing the prices and laughing. Now I watch it alone, staring at the empty space beside me. Even the arguments wed have over valuationsgone. Every time it comes on, the ache is unbearable.
And then theres sleep. You can hug a dozen pillows, try to recreate the warmth, but nothing replaces the real thing. The emptiness beside me is almost a physical pain.
Yet, I go on. I find joy in little thingsour sons laughter, quiet walks through London, the small rituals Ive made to feel her near. I refuse to forget our life together, the love that was real and strong, the love that still gives me strength.
Being a father is my purpose now, my anchor. His smile, his arms around me, the way he discovers the worldits what keeps me standing, even when my heart is shattered. Ive learned to find meaning in the moment, to treasure each day, because loss can come at any time.
I never thought I could survive this and keep breathing. But my love for our boy, my memories of her, our familys storyit all makes me stronger. Life doesnt end with the one we lose. It lives on in what we pass to others, in how we keep loving, in the way we remember.
Even on the hardest days, I find the strength. Because our love hasnt vanishedits just changed form. Its in our son, in the quiet corners of daily life, in the music of a heart that still remembers. And thats what gives me hopethat I can keep living, holding tight to what was real.
