Sailing accident. His boat capsized during a storm off the coast of Maine. They found the wreckage, his life jacket, his wedding ring tangled in the rope. No body — the coast guard said the currents were brutal. He was declared dead after six months of searching.

I was twenty-eight. We'd been married for four years. No kids yet — we were waiting until we bought a house. He had life insurance. A lot of it. Enough for me to pay off our debts and start fresh.

I didn't want the money. I wanted my husband.

The funeral was closed casket. Obviously. His mother sobbed so hard she had to be carried out. His best friend gave a eulogy that made everyone cry. I sat in the front row feeling like I was underwater, like none of it was real.

For the first year, I didn't leave the apartment. I slept in his shirts. I called his voicemail just to hear his voice until the number was disconnected. I nearly followed him into the darkness more than once.

Therapy saved me. Dr. Morrison helped me understand that grief wasn't linear. That I could love James forever and still build a new life. That moving on wasn't betrayal.

At year three, I started dating. Nothing serious. Just coffee, dinners, proof that I could still function like a normal human.

At year four, I met Ryan. Kind, patient, understanding. He didn't try to replace James. He just made space for himself alongside the ghost I still carried.