Three years after losing my husband Anthony in a storm at sea, I decided it was time to heal. I traveled alone to a distant beach—far from the memories—hoping to face the ocean again. That’s when I saw him. Alive. Laughing. Holding hands with a woman and a little girl.

My world stopped. I collapsed in shock, whispering his name. But when he rushed over, he looked at me like a stranger. “My name’s Drake,” he said. He had no memory of me—his wife—or the life we shared. , the woman, Kaitlyn, came to my room. She explained he’d washed up on shore years ago with no ID and no memory. She’d been his nurse. They fell in love. Built a life. That little girl wasn’t his, but he loved her like she was. I met with him again, showing him photos, memories… even our lost child’s ultrasound. But nothing stirred. Then I saw it—the way he looked at them. The same way he once looked at me. And I realized: the man I loved had truly died three years ago. I let go. “I wish I could have my Anthony back,” I told him, “but that’s not possible. Goodbye.” And for the first time in years, I could finally breathe.