Martin and I built a life together.
A home that was always full. Two children, Jane and Jake, who grew up faster than I was ready for. Later, grandchildren filled the quiet spaces.
When you’ve known someone that long, they become part of how you understand the world—like breathing, like time itself. You don’t imagine life without them.
Until one day, you must.
This past winter, Martin died.
I sat beside him at the end, holding his hand, trying to think of something important to say. But when the moment came, all I managed was, “I’m right here.”
