I knew people meant well.
But none of those sentences could fill the empty space beside me.
My husband had been my companion for more than four decades. We had raised children together, survived lean years, built a business from practically nothing, paid a mortgage, repaired roofs, celebrated birthdays, argued over silly things, made up, and grown old together.
Then, suddenly, he was gone.
And before I had even figured out how to sleep on my own side of the bed, my children were talking about paperwork.
“We Need to Talk About Next Steps”
The morning after the funeral, I made coffee for two.
I didn’t realize what I was doing until I placed a second cup on the counter.
For a moment, I just stared at it.
Then I poured it down the sink.
That small act nearly broke me.
The house was painfully quiet.
My husband’s chair sat exactly where he’d left it. His reading glasses were still on the end table. A newspaper he’d started reading remained folded beside them.
