**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 unkemptjust so no one would think I was open to meeting someone new. Love, Id convinced myself, was an illness Id finally recovered from.
And then she appeared.
We met by chanceat a mutual friends birthday. At first, I hardly noticed her. She was laughing at someones joke, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, with this look in her eyesbright, attentive, just a little bit wry. When we started talking, I realised she wasnt just another pretty face but someone who saw deeper. She asked questions, listened properlynot just out of politeness.
We talked until dawn that night. For the first time in years, I laughedreally laughed. And by the end of the evening, I knew something inside me had shifted.
From that day on, we were inseparable. A year later, we married. Seventeen yearsand every single 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, hug me in a way that made everything feel calm.
Her name was Eleanor.
She loved lifes little things: morning coffee in the garden, old black-and-white films, the smell of fresh bakingsomething she did “just because.” And she always said, “You dont have to invent happinessjust notice it.”
When the doctors gave us the diagnosis, we sat in silence. She held my hand tight and said, “Lets not cry just yet, all right? Therell be time for that later if we need to.”
Eighteen months of fighting. Chemo, hospitals, weakness, painbut she never gave in. Even when she lost her hair, she joked about saving time on styling. Her strength amazed meand scared 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 was: her mug left on the table, her favourite blanket draped over the sofa, a book with a bookmark halfway through. And mestuck in the middle of it all, like someone had pressed pause on a film.
Our son keeps me going. Hes sixteen nowmy rock. I dont know what Id do without him. Weve grown closer than ever. We talk about hernot as someone gone, but as if shes just “somewhere else.” Hell say, “Dad, Mum wouldve loved how you made this pasta,” and I smile. Because shes the one who taught me to cook, who always said, “A real man should know how to make breakfast and how to hold someone properly.”
When it became clear the end was near, I tried to prepare. I ran scenarios in my head: going to the shop alone, facing holidays by myself, lying in an empty bed. I thought if I imagined it all beforehand, it wouldnt hurt as much. But nothingno amount of thinkingprepares you for the reality.
Because the pain doesnt come from the big losses. Its the little things.
Every Sunday, we watched *Antiques Roadshow* together. It was 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 mejust silence. When someone on screen gasps at a valuation, I still turn my head out of habit, expecting to see her. But shes not there. And in those moments, the emptiness hits so hard I could scream.
I keep going. I make breakfast, tidy up, take our son to the cinema. We even planted her favourite flowers in the garden again. But every night, when I turn off the light, its the hardest. 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 someone like her. Seventeen years by her sidethats more than some get in a lifetime. She left pieces of herself in mein the words I say, the habits I keep, in our son.
Sometimes, I think shes still here. In the rustle of pages, the whistle of the kettle, the way sunlight cuts through the window just how she liked it.
I know one day Ill laugh without bitterness again. But for now, Im just learning to livenot without her, but with her in my memory.
Because love doesnt disappear when the body goes quiet. It just changes shapebecomes a quiet light guiding you through the dark.
