When you think of true love, you imagine it lasting through everything — sickness and health, joy and sorrow. But for 87-year-old Henry Caldwell, it was money that finally broke his heart.
Henry and his wife, Clara, had been married for 62 years. They raised two children together, survived financial ups and downs, and even rebuilt their lives after losing everything in a fire back in the ‘80s.
Through it all, they stayed together — until the day they didn’t.
It started with a will.
Clara’s late mother had left her a modest inheritance — nothing extravagant, just enough for a comfortable retirement. But over time, she began investing aggressively while Henry preferred saving and living simply.
Their arguments shifted from lighthearted bickering to cold silence. What once were disagreements about money became full-blown battles about control, trust, and respect.
One night, after yet another fight, Clara packed a suitcase.
“I need space,” she said. “Maybe… we both do.”
She moved into a small apartment across town. They promised each other it was temporary.
But six months later, she passed away suddenly from a heart attack.
Henry blames himself every day.
He never got to say goodbye. Never got to apologize. Never got to tell her how much he still loved her — mousey hair, stubborn opinions, and all.
Now, every night before bed, Henry sits by the window where they used to watch the sunset together.
And he whispers:
“Goodnight, my little mouse.”
That was his nickname for her since the day they met — because she used to nibble on sunflower seeds nervously when they first started dating.
He doesn’t cry loudly anymore. He just stares out the window like he’s waiting for her to walk through the door.
Neighbors say he sometimes forgets she’s gone.
Sometimes, he’ll set two plates at the table.
Sometimes, he’ll answer questions as if she’s sitting beside him.
The house is quiet now — too quiet.
But in Henry’s world, she’s still there.
Just not close enough to touch.