After losing my husband last year, my life has taken on a strange, hollow rhythm. We shared 30 years together, filled with laughter, struggles, and dreams. Now, it feels like all of that has been packed away like an old photo album, out of reach but never truly forgotten.

My children, the light of my life, live abroad. I’m proud of the lives they’ve built, and I know they’re happy, but their absence leaves a gaping hole in my heart. They call when they can, and sometimes I catch glimpses of their lives through photos or videos, but it’s not the same as having them close.

To cope, I’ve thrown myself into my work as a retail manager. The bustling store keeps me busy, filled with the hum of customers, employees, and the endless tasks that come with the job. I manage inventory, train staff, and handle problems that pop up during the day. On the surface, I appear strong and focused, but underneath, I’m navigating waves of grief and solitude.

My coworkers are kind, and some have become friends, but there’s an unspoken line I can’t cross with them. They don’t see the tears I shed in my car during lunch breaks or the dread I feel at the end of a long shift, knowing I’m going home to an empty house.

Evenings are the hardest. I walk through the door, greeted by silence. I try to fill the void with books, television, or cooking, but it never feels like enough. The loneliness lingers, a quiet shadow that follows me.

Every day, I remind myself that this is just a chapter. I hope, somehow, I can rediscover a sense of joy and connection, even if it feels so far away right now.