Since my husband passed away last year, life has felt like a blank page—one I’m not sure how to fill. For over 30 years, we built a life together, full of love, challenges, and shared dreams. Now, without him, the house feels too big, too quiet, and far too empty.

I work from home as a freelance writer, a job that once felt like the perfect balance between creativity and freedom. I used to write with the sound of his laughter in the background or the comforting clatter of him making coffee in the kitchen. Now, the silence presses down on me as I stare at my laptop, trying to string words together.

My children, my pride and joy, live abroad. They have families and careers of their own, and I couldn’t be prouder of the people they’ve become. But the distance is painful. We exchange messages and video calls, but the warmth of their presence is something no screen can replace. I long to hug them, to sit with them, to hear their laughter fill this quiet house.

Writing has become both a refuge and a challenge. On good days, I lose myself in my projects, crafting stories and articles that allow me to forget, for a while, how empty the house feels. On bad days, I sit staring at the cursor blinking on a blank page, overwhelmed by the loneliness that seems to creep into every corner of my life.

Evenings are the hardest. When the workday ends, there’s no one waiting for me, no one to share dinner or talk about our day. The silence stretches on, and I find myself reaching for distractions—books, movies, or the endless scroll of social media.

Still, I hold onto hope. One day, I’ll learn how to find joy in this new chapter, even if it means rewriting parts of my life I never expected to change.