I was fifty-five, newly widowed, when I realized just how fragile certainty could be.
For thirty-six years, I had been someone’s wife. Since I was nineteen, there had always been a man whose name followed mine on forms, whose shoes sat by the door, whose breathing filled the quiet at night. Then, one rainy Tuesday, a truck didn’t stop, and my life split into Before and After.
His name was Greg—Raymond Gregory on paperwork, Greg to me. Our marriage wasn’t dramatic. We built a life of grocery lists, oil changes, quiet routines. I believed that was enough.
Then the call came. The hospital. The doctor’s voice: “I’m so sorry.” And just like that, Greg was gone.
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