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 othersperhaps trying to shield myself from any emotional risks. But then I met her. She left an extraordinary 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 best friend. Her energy, her wit, her strength, and her intuition amazed me every day. She was always there, supporting me through every hardship, always knowing how to lift my spirits 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 hard. She battled for eighteen monthsbravely, stubbornly, never breaking. But the disease was too aggressive. Three months ago, we lost her. The wound is still fresh, a weight I carry in my heart every day.
What keeps me afloat is our child. We are incredibly close, and its through them that I find the strength not to drown in grief. Being a parent is a gift, a grounding force that keeps me from slipping into despair. When I see their smile, their wonder at the world, their vulnerability beside me, I know my life still has meaning.
From the moment it became clear my wife wouldnt be coming back, I tried to prepare myself for the loss. I imagined how Id manage alone, how Id cope without her presence. You can brace yourself for the big moments, but its the small, everyday things that remind you theyre gone.
Theyre simple, almost silly things. Like how we always watched *Antiques Roadshow* together on Sundays. Wed sit on the sofa, guessing the value of odd trinkets and laughing. Now I watch it alone, on that same sofa, and theres no one to share the jokes or argue over the estimates. Every time it comes on, the pain surgesa reminder that even the simplest moments are hollow without her.
Then theres falling asleep. You can hug a dozen pillows, arrange the blankets just so, but none of it replaces the warmth of real love, the comfort of her presence. She cant be replaced. Sometimes just the emptiness beside me aches like a physical wound.
And yet, I keep living. Im learning to find joy in little thingsour childs laughter, quiet walks through town, small rituals Ive started to feel her near. I try not to forget our life together, our love, which was real and fierce, and still gives me the strength to move forward.
Being a parent has become my purpose, my anchor. Their smile, their hugs, their tiny daily discoveriesthese are what keep me strong, even when my heart is breaking. Ive learned to find meaning in the moment, to cherish each day, because I understand now how suddenly anyone can be taken.
I never thought I could survive a loss like this and still keep going. But the love for our child, the memories of my wife, our familys storythey make me stronger. Ive realised life doesnt end with the person we love. It continues in what we pass on, how we keep loving, in care and remembrance.
And when the dark thoughts come, I find my footing. Because I know our love hasnt vanishedits just changed shape. Its in our child, in the quiet details of daily life, in memories and the music of a heart that remembers. And thats what gives me hopethat its possible to go on, holding tight to what was real.
