I am 41 years old, and there are mornings when I still sit at the edge of my bed and wonder how on earth my life turned into a story about marrying my late husband’s best friend and finding a second chance at love.
For almost twenty years, I was Peter’s wife. Not in a glamorous, fairy-tale way, but in the ordinary, steady way that real life usually looks. We raised two children, argued about the electric bill, worried about college costs, and fell asleep on the couch halfway through movies. It was simple and imperfect and exactly what we wanted.
The four-bedroom colonial that once rang with slammed doors, laughter, and sibling arguments now feels too quiet. Too still. Sometimes it feels like the house itself is holding its breath, waiting for a noise that never comes.
And then there is the missing piece at the heart of it all.
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