Grief hit me hard and early in life. At just 34, I found myself a widower with a 5-year-old son. My wife, Stacey, had passed away two months earlier in what was described as a sudden and tragic accident. I kissed her goodbye, the scent of lavender still clinging to her chestnut hair. A few hours later, a call from her father changed my life forever.
My world stopped. I couldn’t comprehend the words. “No, that’s impossible,” I remember saying, but the harsh truth quickly set in. Stacey had been in an accident caused by a drunk driver. She was gone, just like that. I barely remember the flight home or walking into our empty house. Her parents had taken care of everything, and the funeral was already over by the time I got back.
“We didn’t want to wait,” her mother said, eyes averted. “It was better this way.”
I was too numb to argue, too overwhelmed to question why I hadn’t been given the chance to say a final goodbye. I should have pushed harder. But grief has a way of clouding your judgment.
