I was fifty-five, newly widowed, when I realized just how fragile certainty could be.
For thirty-six years, I had been someone’s wife. Since I was nineteen, there had always been a man whose name followed mine on forms, whose shoes sat by the door, whose breathing filled the quiet at night. Then, one rainy Tuesday, a truck didn’t stop, and my life split into Before and After.
His name was Greg—Raymond Gregory on paperwork, Greg to me. Our marriage wasn’t dramatic. We built a life of grocery lists, oil changes, quiet routines. I believed that was enough.
Then the call came. The hospital. The doctor’s voice: “I’m so sorry.” And just like that, Greg was gone.
At the viewing, I felt emptied out. I had cried until my skin hurt. My sister zipped my dress because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The chapel smelled of flowers and coffee. Soft piano music drifted through the air, too gentle for the weight in my chest.
Greg lay in a navy suit I’d bought for our last anniversary, hands folded neatly, hair smoothed back. He looked peaceful.
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