No One Can Prepare for Emptiness
I never thought Id divorce twice. After the second time, I was drainednot just emotionally, but physically. I wanted no one near me. I shut myself away, wore old jeans, stopped shaving, made sure I looked unkemptjust so no one would think I was open to new encounters. Love, I believed, was an illness Id finally recovered from.
And then she appeared.
We met by chanceat a mutual friends birthday. I barely noticed her at first. She was laughing at someones joke, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, with a gaze that was lively, attentive, just a little wry. When we spoke, I realised she wasnt just a pretty woman, but someone who saw deeper. She asked questions, listened properlynot just out of politeness.
That evening, we talked until dawn. For the first time in years, I laughedtruly. And that same night, I felt something shift inside me.
From that day on, we were never apart. A year later, we married. Seventeen yearsevery one of them mattered. She wasnt just my wifeshe was my compass, my best friend, my conscience. She could defuse tension with a quip or hold me in a way that made everything still.
Her name was Eleanor.
She cherished the small things: morning coffee in the garden, old black-and-white films, the smell of fresh bread she baked “just because.” Shed often say, “Happiness isnt something you inventits something you notice.”
When the doctors gave us the diagnosis, we sat in silence. She gripped my hand and said, “Lets not cry yet, all right? Therell be time for that later if we need it.”
Eighteen months of fighting. Chemotherapy, hospitals, exhaustion, painbut she never surrendered. Even when she lost her hair, she joked about saving time on styling. Her strength amazed and 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 remained exactly as it was: her mug on the table, her favourite throw on the sofa, a book left open with a bookmark halfway through. And me, in the middle of it all, like a film someone had paused.
Our son keeps me standing. Hes sixteen nowmy anchor. I dont know where Id be without him. Weve grown closer than ever. We talk about hernot as if shes gone, but as if shes “just nearby.” He says, “Dad, Mum wouldve loved how you make pasta now.” And I smile, because she was the one who taught me to cook, saying, “A real man should know how to make breakfast and how to hold someone.”
When the end was near, I tried to prepare. I played out scenarios in my head: how Id go to the shops alone, how Id face holidays by myself, how Id climb into an empty bed. I thought if I imagined it all beforehand, it wouldnt hurt as much. But no amount of thinking prepares you for the reality.
Because grief doesnt come from the big lossesit comes from the little things.
Every Sunday, we used to watch *Antiques Roadshow* together. It was our small ritual. Wed guess the values, argue, laugh. Now, I still turn it on. I sit on the same sofa. But beside me, theres only silence. When someone on screen gasps at a price, I still instinctively turn to look at herbut she isnt there. And in those moments, the emptiness is so vast it feels like screaming.
I try to keep going. I make breakfast, tidy up, take our son to the cinema. Weve even planted her favourite flowers in the garden again. But every night, when I turn off the light, 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 someone like her. Seventeen years by her sidethats more than some get in a lifetime. She left pieces of herself in mein words, in habits, in our son.
Sometimes, I think shes still here. In the rustle of turning pages, the whistle of the kettle, the sunlight streaming through the window just the way she loved.
I know one day Ill laugh without bitterness. But for now, Im learning to live againnot without her, but with her in my memories.
Because love doesnt vanish when the body falls silent. It just changes shapebecoming a quiet light to guide you through the dark.
