My husband, Daniel, died suddenly just a month ago. Yesterday, his phone chimed—a hotel charge had just hit his card. A second later, a text appeared: “I’m already at the hotel, waiting for you.” My heart raced as I jumped in the car, hands trembling on the wheel. It felt like grief had cracked open a door I wasn’t ready to close.

Mid-drive, his phone rang. A woman’s voice came through, soft but urgent: “Where are you, love? I’ve been waiting for you for an hour!” I yelled, asking who she was. She hesitated, then said, “Isn’t this Jake’s phone?” My stomach dropped—was this some sick joke or something worse?

But Daniel’s name wasn’t Jake. My mind spun. Grief twisted with confusion, fear, and the tiniest spark of something desperate: hope. Could it be him? Could Daniel still be out there, somehow? I pulled over, unable to trust my own breath.

It wasn’t him. Jake was a 23-year-old scammer who had hacked into Daniel’s phone and stolen his identity. The authorities handled it quickly. But for a moment—just a breath—I believed the impossible: that my husband had found a way back to me. And in that second, I let my heart break all over again.