My husband died on a rainy night, leaving me to raise our five-year-old son alone. But weeks later, a single text from his number — one word, “Hi” — shattered everything I thought I knew about love, grief, and truth.
Life had already worn me down before that message came. Our little boy, Caleb, had been diagnosed with a rare illness. The doctors said it was treatable, but expensive. I remember holding his tiny hand, forcing myself to stay calm while every word from that doctor echoed through my mind.
After that day, life became survival. I worked mornings at a diner and cleaned offices at night. Mark, my husband, picked up construction jobs in nearby towns. We barely saw each other, both too exhausted to talk.
Then came the call. A highway accident. They said it was quick. Painless. As if that made it easier.
I buried him. I watched our son cling to the coffin and whisper, “When’s Daddy coming home?” Every night after that, I cried in the shower so he wouldn’t hear me.
Three weeks later, I came home late from work. Rain soaked my clothes, my bones heavy with fatigue. I dropped my bag on the couch and checked my phone. And there it was — a new message. From Mark’s number.
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