I never imagined I’d be grieving so early, yet here I am at 34, a widower with a 5-year-old son. My wife Stacey’s chestnut hair smelt of lavender as I kissed her goodbye two months ago. Then, a phone call that will forever be seared in my memory, wrecked my world… 💔
I was in Seattle at the time, concluding a huge contract for my company, when my phone rang.
The phone call came from Stacey’s father.
“Abraham, there’s been an accident. Stacey… she’s gone.”
“What? No, that’s impossible. I just talked to her last night!”
“I’m so sorry, son. It happened this morning. A drunk driver…”
I don’t remember the flight home, just stumbling into our empty house. Stacey’s parents had already arranged everything. The funeral was over, and I hadn’t been able to say goodbye.
That night, after the funeral, I held Luke as he cried himself to sleep.
“Can we call her? Will she talk to us, Daddy?”
“No, baby. Mommy’s in heaven now. She can’t talk to us anymore.”
He hid his face in my chest as I hugged him tightly, and my tears fell softly. How could I explain d.e.a.t.h to a five-year-old when I didn’t grasp it myself?
Two months dragged slowly.
I put myself to work and hired a nanny for Lucas. However, the house felt like a mausoleum. Stacey’s clothing was still hanging in the closet, and her favorite mug was unwashed beside the sink. Every nook carried a memory, and they were gradually haunting me.
One morning, as I watched Luke slide his cereal into his bowl, barely eating, I realized we needed a change.
“Hey champ, how about we go to the beach?” I asked, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice.
Perhaps this trip was what we both needed to begin healing.
I watched Luke splash in the waters, his joy calming my aching spirit. I almost forgot about the agony and got lost in the sheer joy of being a father.
On the third day, I was deep in meditation when Luke came running.
“Dad, look, Mom’s back!” he said, pointing at someone.
A woman stood by the beach with her back to us. Stacey and I are the same height, and we both have chestnut hair.
It was Stacey.
Her eyes widened as she clutched the arm of the man beside her. They dashed away, vanishing among the mass of beachgoers.
I took him back to our room, my mind racing. It could not be. I had buried her. Haven’t I? But I recognized what I saw. That was Stacey. My wife. Luke’s mother. I assumed the woman had d.i.e.d.
That night, after Luke had fallen asleep, I paced the balcony.
My hands shook as I dialed the number for Stacey’s mother.
I stood there, looking out at the dark ocean. Something was not right. I could feel it in my stomach. And I intended to get to the bottom of it.
I spent hours exploring the beach, shops, and restaurants. There is no indication of Stacey or her buddy. My frustration increased with each passing hour. Was I going crazy? Had I dreamed the entire thing?
As the sun began to drop, I sank on a bench, despondent. Suddenly, a familiar voice startled me.
“I knew you’d look for me.”
I turned to see Stacey standing alone this time. She looked exactly like I recalled, yet different. Harder. Colder.
“Then explain it,” I screamed, my hands quivering from fury and amazement as I discreetly recorded her discussion on my phone.
The story gradually spilled out. An affair. A pregnancy. An intricate escape strategy.
Tears ran down her face. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t face you. This way, everyone could move on.”
“Understand what? That you’re a liar? A che:ater? That you let me grieve while you ran off with your lover?”
“Mommy?”
We both turned. Luke stood there, eyes wide and gripping his nanny’s hand. My heart fell. How much had he heard?
Luke wiggled in my arms. “Daddy, I want to go to Mommy… please. Mommy, don’t leave me. Mommy… Mommy!”
“Luke, I need you to be brave. Your mother did a very bad thing. She lied to us.”
His tiny head settled against my chest, a gentle nod followed by a sound sleep. His tears seeped through my shirt, leaving behind a moist, salty memory of our shared misery.
The following several weeks were a blur. Lawyers, custody agreements, and explaining to Luke in words that a 5-year-old might comprehend. Stacey’s parents attempted to contact me, but I shut them down. They were equally at blame as she was.
Two months later, I was standing on our new balcony, watching Luke play in the backyard. We’d moved to a new city, giving us each a fresh start. It had not been easy. Luke still had nightmares and asked about his mother. But we were slowly healing.
One day, my phone vibrated with a text from Stacey.
“Please, let me explain. I miss Luke so much. I’m feeling so lost. My boyfriend broke up with me. 😔🙏🏻”
I removed it without replying.
As the sun set on another day, I hugged my son tightly. “I love you, buddy,” I whispered.
He smiled up at me, his eyes full of trust and affection. “I love you too, Daddy!”
And in that moment, I knew we were going to be fine. It would not be easy, and there would be difficult times ahead. But we had each other, and that was what mattered.
