When my husband passed away last year, it felt like the ground beneath my feet disappeared. He was my partner, my companion, the one who made even the smallest moments feel significant. His laughter filled our home, and his presence brought me a sense of security that I never realized I leaned on so much—until it was gone.

Now, the house feels quiet, almost too quiet. I’ve tried to fill the silence with the hum of the television or the rustle of a book’s pages, but nothing can replace his voice or the way his presence seemed to breathe life into the walls around me.

My children, whom I raised with so much love, now live abroad, pursuing their own dreams and building their own lives. I’m so proud of them, but the distance makes the ache of loneliness even harder to bear. We talk on the phone, exchange pictures, and share updates, but it’s not the same as having them here. There are days when I yearn to feel their hugs, to sit around the table together like we used to.

As a school teacher, I pour myself into my work, trying to find purpose in shaping young minds. The smiles of my students remind me that I still have something to give, but even that doesn’t always fill the emptiness.

Life feels heavier now, but I’m trying—trying to rediscover who I am in this new chapter. It’s not easy, but I hold on to the hope that, with time, I’ll find a way to feel whole again.