I loved Margaret.
We built a life together, raised two children, survived financial difficulties, celebrated birthdays, argued about household expenses, and learned the small habits that make a marriage real.
When Margaret became ill, I stayed beside her through hospital visits, sleepless nights, and the long months when we both understood what the doctors were trying not to say.
I held her hand when she died.
For a long time afterward, I wondered how a person could continue living when someone who had been part of every ordinary day was suddenly gone.
My children helped as much as they could, but they had jobs, spouses, and children of their own. They called regularly. They visited on weekends when their schedules allowed.
I never blamed them.
Still, the house was painfully quiet.
Sometimes, I would prepare two cups of tea without thinking. Sometimes, I would turn toward Margaret’s favorite chair to tell her something funny I had seen on television.
