Three years after losing my wife, I never imagined love would find me again. But it did—and when it did, it brought with it a truth so extraordinary it shook the foundations of everything I believed about life, death, and love itself.
Grief has a strange rhythm. It dulls, but it never truly fades. My days after Emma’s accident blended into a gray blur. Every morning felt like the same cold Missouri dawn: black coffee, a drive through fog, the hollow sound of tires humming against wet asphalt. I went to the garage, fixed engines, and hid behind the noise of other people’s lives because mine had gone silent.
I could still hear that night—the screeching tires, the shattering glass, the impossible stillness that followed. I lived. She didn’t. Three years later, those words still split me open: I survived. I told myself I was functioning, but really, I was drifting.
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