Imagine burying someone you love, only to see them alive again. That’s what happened when my son spotted his “dead” mother on our beach vacation. The truth I uncovered was far more heartbreaking than her supposed death.
At 34, I never expected to be a widower, raising a 5-year-old son on my own. Two months ago, I kissed my wife, Stacey, goodbye for the last time. Her chestnut hair smelled of lavender, and I never imagined that would be our final moment together. Then came the phone call that shattered my world.
I was in Seattle closing a major deal for my company when my phone buzzed. It was Stacey’s father.
“Abraham, there’s been an accident. Stacey… she’s gone.”
“What? That’s impossible. I just talked to her last night!”
“I’m sorry, son. It happened this morning. A drunk driver…”
His words became a blur. I don’t even remember the flight home. When I arrived, everything had already been arranged. Stacey’s parents had organized the funeral, and I hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye.
“We didn’t want to wait,” her mother said, avoiding my gaze. “It was better this way.”
I was too numb to argue. I should have insisted on seeing her, but grief clouds your judgment. It makes you accept things you would normally question.
That night, after the funeral, I held my son, Luke, as he cried himself to sleep.
“When’s Mommy coming home?” he asked.
“She can’t, buddy. But she loves you very much.”
“Can we call her? Will she talk to us, Daddy?”
“No, baby. Mommy’s in heaven now. She can’t talk to us anymore.”
