Grief has a strange way of changing how time feels. Some days stretch endlessly, others disappear before you can even take a breath. I was thirty-four when I lost my wife, Stacey, and suddenly became a single father to our five-year-old son.
The last time I saw her, her chestnut hair smelled like lavender when I kissed her goodbye. I was leaving for a short business trip to Seattle — nothing unusual. Then the phone rang, and my life split in two.
Her father’s voice was shaking.
“Abraham… there’s been an accident. Stacey didn’t make it.”
My mind refused to believe it. Just last night we’d laughed together on the phone. It didn’t seem real.
When I flew back home, everything had already happened — the funeral, the condolences, the tears. They told me I shouldn’t see her, that it was better to remember her the way she was. I was too lost in shock to argue.
That night, I held our son, Luke, as he cried in my arms.
“When’s Mommy coming home?” he asked quietly.
“She’s in heaven now, buddy,” I whispered.
Weeks passed in a blur. Stacey’s clothes still hung in the closet, her favorite mug still sat by the sink. I couldn’t bring myself to move anything. The house felt frozen in time.
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