My first Christmas as a widow was supposed to be quiet and predictable: work at the library, go home to an empty house, repeat. Instead, the old man on the bench outside—who I thought was just another stranger I gave sandwiches to—suddenly changed everything.I lost my husband to cancer three months ago, and on Christmas Eve a “homeless” man told me not to go home because it was dangerous.
My name is Claire. I’m 35, and this is my first Christmas as a widow.Evan and I were married eight years.The last two were chemo, scans, bad coffee, and the word “stable” used like a bandage.Then one morning, he didn’t wake up.After the funeral, our little house felt like a stage set.His jacket on the chair.
