Grief is supposed to close a chapter, not leave it dangling in limbo. For two months, I lived as a man who believed his life had ended alongside his wife’s. At thirty-four, I was suddenly a widower and a full-time father, going through the motions of survival after being told my wife, Corinne, had died in a horrific accident while I was away for work. Her parents handled everything. I was spared the details. I was told the casket was closed out of “kindness.” In shock, I accepted their version of events and buried the woman I loved without ever seeing her one last time.
What followed wasn’t healing—it was endurance. Our five-year-old son, Otis, asked questions no parent is prepared to answer. Every “When is Mommy coming back?” felt like reopening a wound that never had time to close. Our home became unbearably quiet, frozen in the shape of a life that had supposedly ended. Desperate to breathe again, I took Otis to the coast, hoping distance and sea air might loosen grief’s grip.
For a brief moment, it worked. Otis laughed. He played. Then everything broke.
On the third day, walking along the shoreline, Otis stopped and pointed toward a woman standing near the water. “Daddy,” he said, shaking with excitement, “that’s Mommy.”
I was ready to dismiss it—until she turned around.
It was her.
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