With my husband gone and my kids living so far away, teaching is the only thing that keeps me occupied, but it’s a struggle to come home to an empty house every day. In the classroom, I’m focused, engaged, and busy. There are lesson plans to create, students to guide, and endless papers to grade. The energy of my students is a welcome distraction—they need my attention, my patience, and my encouragement. For those hours, I feel purposeful, needed, and almost like my old self.

But the moment I step out of the school, reality sets in. The walk to my car feels heavier, as if each step pulls me further away from the comfort of the bustling classroom and closer to the silence waiting at home. The house that was once so full of life now feels too big and too quiet. Every creak of the floor, every rustle of the wind outside feels amplified in the emptiness. It’s a house meant for laughter and conversation, not the stillness that has taken over since he left.

There are days when I linger at school longer than necessary, grading papers late into the evening just to delay the inevitable return. Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to come home to the warm sound of a voice calling out, asking how my day went. I used to take those small things for granted—the comforting routine of sharing a meal or catching up on the events of the day. Now, it’s just me, reheating leftovers and listening to the ticking clock as I try to fill the long hours until bedtime.

I know my children are just a phone call away, but it’s not the same as having them close. The time zones and busy schedules make even conversations feel distant, as if they’re living in another world altogether. I try not to let them hear the sadness in my voice, but it’s hard to hide how empty the house feels without their presence. Teaching gives me a reason to get up each day, but when the sun sets and the house falls into darkness, it’s a different kind of challenge—a test of endurance in the face of overwhelming loneliness.