My name is Megan. Five years ago, I lost my husband, Paul, in a devastating highway accident. He was only 34. We had shared nine beautiful years of marriage, and losing him shattered a part of me I still struggle to put back together.
Every anniversary, I take the morning off and visit his grave. I bring yellow flowers, the same ones he used to place on our kitchen table, little reminders of the love that once filled our home.
People tell me it’s time to move on. And I have, in some ways. I work, spend time with friends, and have even tried dating again. But no matter how much life moves forward, my heart still returns to Paul.
This year, my sister offered to accompany me.
“I can drive you,” she said gently.
“Thank you, but I need to be alone,” I replied.
I stopped for coffee and bought my usual flowers. When the florist asked whether I’d like a card, I quietly answered, “No. He knows they’re from me.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
