I had just gone through my second divorce and decided relationships were no longer for me. I didnt want anyone close, deliberately making myself as unapproachable as possible. Perhaps I was trying to shield myself from any emotional risk. But then I met her. She left an unforgettable impression on me. From that evening 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 closest friend. Her energy, her wit, her strength, and her 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 part of who we were.
When the doctors diagnosed cancer, we knew the fight would be hard. She battled for eighteen monthsbravely, stubbornly, never breaking. But the illness was too aggressive. Nearly three months ago now, we lost her. The wound is still fresh, carried in my heart every day.
What keeps me afloat is our child. We are incredibly close, and through them, I find the strength not to drown in grief. Being a parent is a gift, one that anchors me, refusing to let me sink into despair. When I see their smile, their wonder at the world, their quiet trust in me, I remember my life still has meaning.
From the moment it became clear my wife wouldnt stay, I tried to prepare myself for the loss. I imagined how Id do things alone, how Id manage without her support. Of course, you can brace yourself in theory, but its the small, daily absences that remind you shes gone.
The simplest things, almost laughable in their mundanity. Like how we always watched *Antiques Roadshow* together on Sundays. Wed sit on the sofa, guessing the value of each item, laughing over our terrible estimates. Now I watch it alone, and theres no one beside me to laugh or argue with. Every time, the pain is sharpproof that even the smallest rituals feel hollow without her.
And then theres sleep. You can clutch a dozen pillows, wrap yourself in blankets, but nothing replaces the real thingthe warmth of her presence. Theres no substitute. Sometimes, even the empty space beside me feels like a physical ache.
Yet I keep going. Im learning to find joy in little thingsthe sound of my child laughing, quiet walks through London, the small routines Ive started to keep her memory alive. I refuse to forget our life together, our lovereal and fiercethat still gives me strength to move forward.
Being a parent is my purpose now, my anchor and my motivation. Their smile, their hugs, their daily discoveries of the worldthese are what keep me standing, even when my heart threatens to collapse. Ive learned to find meaning in moments, to cherish each day, knowing how easily anyone can be taken.
I never thought Id survive such loss. But love for my child, memories of my wife, our shared historythey make me stronger. Life doesnt end with the one we loveit continues in what we pass on, in how we keep loving, in care and remembrance.
Even when the dark thoughts come, I find strength. Because our love hasnt disappearedits just changed shape. Its in our child, in the quiet corners of daily life, in memories and the music of a heart that still remembers. And thats what gives me hopethat its possible to keep living, holding tight to what was true.
