Its impossible to prepare for the emptiness.
I never thought Id go through a second divorce. After the second one, I was drainednot just emotionally, but physically. I didnt want anyone near me. I shut myself off from the world, wore old jeans, stopped shaving, made sure I looked rough around the edgesjust so no one would think I was open to meeting someone new. Love felt like an illness Id finally recovered from.
And then she appeared.
We met by chanceat a mutual friends birthday. At first, I barely noticed her. She was laughing at someones joke, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and there was something in her gazebright, attentive, a little ironic. When we started talking, I realized she wasnt just another pretty woman, but someone who saw deeper. She asked questions, really listened, not just out of politeness.
That evening, we talked until dawn. For the first time in years, I laughedproperly. And that same night, I knew something inside me had shifted.
From that day on, we were inseparable. A year later, we married. Seventeen yearsand every one of them mattered. She wasnt just my wife; she was my compass, my best friend, my conscience. She could defuse tension with a single quip, hold me in a way that made everything feel calm.
Her name was Evelyn.
She loved the little things in lifemorning coffee in the garden, old black-and-white films, the smell of fresh bread shed bake just because. And shed always say, Happiness isnt something you inventits something you notice.
When the doctors gave us the diagnosis, neither of us spoke. She sat across from me, squeezing my hand, and said, We wont cry now, alright? Therell be time for that later, if we need to.
Eighteen months of fighting. Chemotherapy, hospitals, weakness, painbut she never gave up. Even when she lost her hair, she joked that shed save time on styling. Her strength amazed meand terrified me, because I could only watch as she faded, helpless to stop it.
Three months ago, she was gone.
The world went quiet. Too quiet. Our house stayed exactly as it washer mug on the table, her favourite blanket on the sofa, a book left open at the page shed been reading. And me, stuck in the middle of it all, like a film someone had paused.
Our son keeps me going. Hes sixteen. My rock. I dont know where Id be without him. Weve grown closer than ever. We talk about hernot as someone gone, but as if shes just somewhere nearby. Hell say, Dad, Mum wouldve loved how you made this pasta. And I smile, because she was the one who taught me to cook, whod say, A real man should know how to make breakfast and how to hold someone.
When we knew the end was near, I tried to prepare. I ran through scenarios in my headhow Id go to the shops alone, how Id face holidays without her, how Id lie in an empty bed. I thought if I imagined it all beforehand, it might hurt less. But nothing prepares you for the reality.
Because the pain doesnt come from the big losses. Its the little things.
Every Sunday, wed watch *Antiques Roadshow* together. Our little tradition. Wed guess the prices, argue, laugh. Now, I still turn it on. I sit on the same sofa. But the silence beside me is deafening. When someone on screen gasps at a valuation, I still turn my head to look at her. But shes not there. And in those moments, the emptiness hits so hard I could scream.
I try to keep going. I make breakfast, tidy up, take our son to the cinema. Weve even replanted her favourite flowers in the garden. But every night, when I turn off the lights, the hardest part comes. You can hug a pillow all you wantit doesnt smell like love.
And yet, despite everything, Im grateful. Because I was lucky enough to know her. To have her beside me for seventeen yearsthats more than some get in a lifetime. She left pieces of herself in mein the words she used, in the habits we shared, in our son.
Sometimes, I think shes still here. In the rustle of turning pages, in the whistle of the kettle, in the sunlight that streams through the window just the way she loved it.
I know one day Ill laugh again without the bitterness. But for now, Im just learning to livenot without her, but with her still in my memory.
Because love doesnt disappear, even when the body falls silent. It just changes shapebecomes a quiet light to guide you through the dark.
