When my late husband’s best friend asked me to marry him, I thought I’d already faced the hardest parts of grief and said yes. But on our wedding night, standing in front of an old safe with trembling hands, my new husband said words that made me question everything I thought I knew about love, loyalty, and second chances.I’m 41 now, and some days I still can’t believe this is my life.For two decades, I was Peter’s wife. Not in some grand, fairytale way, but in the real, messy, beautiful way that actually matters. We had a four-bedroom colonial with creaky floors and a back porch that always needed fixing. And two kids who filled every corner with noise and chaos and joy.

My son’s 19 now, studying engineering somewhere out west. My daughter just turned 21 and picked a college as far east as she could get, probably just to prove she could.The house feels wrong without them… without my Peter. It’s hauntingly quiet and empty… like it’s holding its breath.Peter used to say our life was ordinary, and he meant it as the highest compliment. Soccer games on Saturday mornings. Burned dinners we’d laugh about while ordering pizza. Arguments about whose turn it was to take out the trash.He’d try to fix things himself even though we both knew he’d just make it worse, and I’d pretend to be annoyed while watching him curse at the kitchen sink.He wasn’t perfect. God knows he drove me crazy sometimes. But he was steady, kind, and he made me feel safe in a way I didn’t even know I needed until it was gone.Six years ago, a drunk driver ran a red light on Peter’s way home from work. A police officer came to my door, and I remember collapsing on the porch in tears.