The Impossible Preparation for Emptiness
I never imagined Id divorce twice. After the second time, I was drainednot just emotionally, but physically. I wanted no one near. I shut myself away from the world, wore the same old jeans, stopped shaving, made sure I looked unkemptjust so no one would think I was open to meeting someone. Love, I decided, was a sickness Id finally recovered from.
And then she appeared.
We met by chance at a mutual friends birthday. At first, I barely noticed her. She was laughing at someones joke, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze alive, attentive, faintly mischievous. When we spoke, I realised she wasnt just a pretty womanshe was someone who saw deeper. She asked questions, listened properly, not just out of politeness.
That evening, we talked until dawn. For the first time in years, I laughedreally laughed. And in that moment, I felt something inside me shift.
From then on, we were never apart. A year later, we married. Seventeen yearsevery single one mattered. She wasnt just my wife; she was my compass, my best friend, my conscience. She could defuse tension with a single joke, hold me in a way that made everything still.
Her name was Eleanor.
She loved lifes small things: morning coffee in the garden, old black-and-white films, the smell of fresh bread she baked “just because.” She always said, “Happiness isnt something you inventits something you notice.”
When the doctors gave the diagnosis, we both sat in silence. She gripped my hand and whispered, “We wont cry yet, alright? Therell be time for that later, if we need to.”
Eighteen months of fighting. Chemo, hospitals, exhaustion, painbut she never gave in. Even when she lost her hair, she joked about saving time on styling. Her strength amazed meand terrified me, because I could only watch as she faded, helpless.
Three months ago, she was gone.
The world went quiet. Too quiet. Our home remained untouched: her favourite mug on the table, the tartan blanket on the sofa, a bookmarked novel left half-read. And me, stranded in the middle of it all, like a film someone had paused.
Our son keeps me standing. Hes sixteen. My anchor. I dont know where Id be without him. Weve grown closer than ever. We talk about hernot as someone missing, but as if shes “just nearby.” Hell say, “Dad, Mum wouldve loved how you made the pasta,” and I smile. Because shes the one who taught me to cook, who always said, “A real man should know how to make breakfast and how to hold someone.”
When the end was near, I tried to prepare. I rehearsed it in my head: shopping alone, facing holidays alone, lying in an empty bed. I thought if I imagined it all beforehand, it wouldnt hurt as much. But no amount of thinking prepares you for reality.
Because grief doesnt always come from the big lossesits the little things.
Every Sunday, wed watch *Antiques Roadshow* together. Our silly tradition. Wed guess the prices, argue, laugh. Now, I still turn it on. Sit on the same sofa. But the silence beside me is deafening. When someone onscreen gasps at a valuation, I still turn, reflexively, to look at her. But shes not there. And in those moments, the emptiness is so vast I could scream.
I try to keep going. Make breakfast, tidy up, take our son to the cinema. We even replanted her favourite roses in the garden. But every night, when I turn off the light, the worst part comes. You can hug a pillow all you wantit doesnt smell like love.
And yet, despite it all, Im grateful. Because I was lucky enough to know her. Seventeen yearsmore than some get in a lifetime. She left pieces of herself in me: in the way I speak, the habits I keep, in our son.
Sometimes, I think shes still here. In the rustle of pages, the whistle of the kettle, the way sunlight slants through the window just how she liked it.
I know one day Ill laugh without bitterness. But for now, Im learning to live againnot without her, but with her in my memory.
Because love doesnt vanish when the body goes quiet. It just changes shapebecomes a quiet light, guiding you through the dark.
