You Cant Prepare for Emptiness
I never thought Id get divorced twice. After the second time, 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, and made sure I looked unkemptjust so no one would think I was open to meeting someone new. I convinced myself love was an illness, and Id finally recovered.
Then she appeared.
We met by chanceat a mutual friends birthday party. At first, I hardly noticed her. She was laughing at someones joke, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, with a gaze that was bright, attentive, and just a little bit playful. When we started talking, I realised she wasnt just another pretty faceshe was someone who saw deeper. She asked questions, listened properly, not just out of politeness.
We talked until dawn that night. For the first time in years, I laughedreally laughed. And by the time the sun came up, I knew something inside me had shifted.
From that day on, we were inseparable. A year later, we married. Seventeen yearsand every one of them mattered. She wasnt just my wifeshe was my compass, my best friend, my conscience. She could defuse tension with a single joke, or hold me in a way that made everything feel steady.
Her name was Eleanor.
She loved lifes little things: morning coffee in the garden, old black-and-white films, the scent of fresh bread she baked “just because.” Shed always say, “Happiness isnt something you inventits something you notice.”
When the doctors gave us the diagnosis, we sat in silence. She squeezed my hand and said, “Lets not cry now, all right? Therell be time for that later if we need to.”
Eighteen months of fighting. Chemo, hospitals, exhaustion, painbut she never gave in. Even when she lost her hair, she joked about saving time on styling. Her strength amazed meand 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 stayed exactly as it was: her favourite mug on the table, the blanket she always curled under on the sofa, a book left open halfway through. And me, standing in the middle of it all, like a film someone had paused.
Our son keeps me going. Hes sixteen nowmy anchor. I dont know what Id do without him. Weve grown closer than ever. We talk about hernot as someone gone, but as if shes still nearby. Hell say, “Dad, Mum wouldve loved how you made this pasta,” and I smile. Because shes the one who taught me to cook, insisting, “A real man should know how to make breakfast and how to hold someone tight.”
When the end was near, I tried to prepare. I played out scenarios in my head: shopping alone, facing holidays alone, climbing into an empty bed. I thought if I imagined it all in advance, it wouldnt hurt as much. But no amount of thinking prepares you for reality.
Because grief doesnt come from the big lossesit comes from the small things.
Every Sunday, wed watch *Antiques Roadshow* together. It was our little ritual. Wed guess the prices, argue, laugh. Now, I still turn it on. I sit on the same sofa. But beside me, theres only silence. When someone onscreen gasps at a valuation, I still instinctively turn to look at her. But shes not there. And in those moments, the emptiness is so vast it steals my breath.
I try to keep going. I make breakfast, tidy up, take our son to the cinema. We even replanted her favourite roses in the garden. But every night, when I turn off the light, thats when its hardest. 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 behindin words, in habits, in our son.
Sometimes, I think shes still here. In the rustle of turning pages, in the whistle of the kettle, in the sunlight falling through the window just the way she liked it.
I know one day, Ill laugh without the ache. But for now, Im learning to live againnot without her, but with her in my memory.
Because love doesnt disappear when the body falls silent. It just changes shapebecoming the quiet light that guides you through the dark.
