Grief hit me hard and early in life. At just 34, I found myself a widower with a 5-year-old son. My wife, Stacey, had passed away two months earlier in what was described as a sudden and tragic accident. I kissed her goodbye, the scent of lavender still clinging to her chestnut hair. A few hours later, a call from her father changed my life forever.
My world stopped. I couldn’t comprehend the words. “No, that’s impossible,” I remember saying, but the harsh truth quickly set in. Stacey had been in an accident caused by a drunk driver. She was gone, just like that. I barely remember the flight home or walking into our empty house. Her parents had taken care of everything, and the funeral was already over by the time I got back.
I was too numb to argue, too overwhelmed to question why I hadn’t been given the chance to say a final goodbye. I should have pushed harder. But grief has a way of clouding your judgment.
Two months later, the house felt like a mausoleum. Stacey’s clothes still hung in the closet, and her favorite mug sat by the sink, untouched. The weight of memories was unbearable. My son, Luke, was struggling too. His innocent questions about why Mommy couldn’t come home tore me apart.
