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 the same old jeans, stopped shaving, made sure I looked dishevelledjust so no one would think I was open to meeting someone new. Love, I told myself, was a sickness Id already 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 loose strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze sharp, alive, with just a hint of mischief. When we finally spoke, I realised she wasnt just another pretty faceshe was someone who saw deeper. She asked questions, really listened, not just out of politeness.
That night, we talked until dawn. For the first time in years, I laughedproperly. And by the end of it, I knew something inside me had shifted.
From that day on, we were never apart. A year later, we married. Seventeen yearsevery 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 joke, hold me in a way that made everything calm.
Her name was Eleanor.
She adored the little things in lifemorning coffee in the garden, old black-and-white films, the smell of fresh bread she baked “just because.” And shed always say, “Dont invent happinessjust notice it.”
When the doctors gave us the diagnosis, we sat in silence. She gripped my hand across the table and said, “Lets not cry yet, all right? Therell be time for that if we need to.”
Eighteen months of fighting. Chemotherapy, hospitals, exhaustion, painbut she never surrendered. Even when she lost her hair, she joked that at least shed save time styling it. Her strength was staggeringand terrifying, because I watched her fade, helpless to stop it.
Three months ago, she was gone.
The world went quiet. Too quiet. Our house remains exactly as it washer favourite mug on the table, the blanket she always curled under on the sofa, a book left half-read with the bookmark still in place. And mestuck in the middle of it all, like a film someone paused.
Our son keeps me standing. Hes sixteen nowmy anchor. I cant imagine surviving this without him. Weve grown closer than ever. We talk about hernot as someone missing, 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, who insisted, “A real man should know how to make breakfast and how to hold someone.”
When the end was near, I tried to prepare. I ran scenarios in my headhow Id shop alone, celebrate holidays alone, climb into an empty bed at night. I thought if I imagined it all beforehand, the pain might be dulled. But no amount of thinking readies you for reality.
Because grief doesnt come from the big lossesits the little things.
Every Sunday, wed watch *Antiques Roadshow* together. Our little ritual. Wed guess the prices, argue, laugh. Now, I still turn it on. I sit in the same spot on the sofa. But beside meonly silence. When someone on screen gasps at a valuation, I still turn my head to look at her. She isnt there. And in those moments, the emptiness is so vast, I could scream.
I try to keep going. I make breakfast. I clean. I take our son to the cinema. We even planted her favourite roses in the garden again. 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.
Still, despite everything, Im grateful. Because I was lucky enough to know her. Seventeen years with her was more than some get in a lifetime. She left pieces of herself in mein my words, my habits, our son.
Sometimes, I swear shes still here. In the rustle of turning 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 just 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.
