Nearly eight weeks have passed since the tragedy that changed her life forever, yet time has done little to dull the ache. Every morning still begins the same way — with that brief, disoriented second before reality settles in and the weight of loss crushes her chest all over again. Her husband, her best friend, the man she built her world around, is gone.
Friends and family keep reminding her that she’s strong, but strength feels like a cruel word when all she wants is one more ordinary evening — dinner at the table, his laugh echoing through the kitchen, the comfort of his voice saying, “I’ll be home soon.” Now, home feels different. It’s quieter. Colder.
The investigation is still ongoing, but she’s stopped clinging to updates. No amount of justice will bring him back. What she holds onto now are the memories — the way he looked at her when she laughed, the way he’d hum softly while fixing things around the house, the way his hand always found hers in a crowd.
Some days, she visits the spot where his life was taken. She brings flowers and whispers the things she never got to say. She says it helps, even if only for a moment. “It’s like he’s still listening,” she told a close friend.
Neighbors and strangers alike have shown kindness — leaving food, offering rides, sending cards. Yet when night falls, the silence becomes unbearable again. The bed feels too big, and the shadows too long.
She keeps his wedding ring on her nightstand, right beside the photo from their first trip together. In that picture, he’s smiling at her like nothing in the world could ever go wrong. That’s how she wants to remember him — not as the victim of violence, but as the man who made her feel safe, loved, and seen.
It’s been almost two months, but grief doesn’t