I buried my husband, Ron, five years after we were married.
At the time, I was eight months pregnant.
The accident was severe, and I was advised not to view his body. Everything moved quickly. The funeral came and went before I had fully understood what had happened.
Within days, I lost our unborn child as well.
In a matter of weeks, the future I had imagined disappeared.
For a long time, survival meant looking forward rather than backward. I moved away, changed cities, and built a quieter life. I found work at a dental office and rented a modest apartment where nothing reminded me of what I had lost.
The silence was difficult, but it was predictable.
And sometimes predictable felt safer than painful.