I was 34 when I became a widower.
Not in the poetic sense. Not in the “life goes on” sense.
In the paperwork-and-funeral sense.
In the “my five-year-old asks when Mommy is coming home” sense.
Two months ago, I kissed my wife Stacey goodbye before a work trip. Her chestnut hair smelled like lavender, and I remember thinking — stupidly — that I’d never take normal for granted again.
Then my phone rang, and everything shattered.
I was in Seattle, finalizing a deal, when Stacey’s father called me.
“Abraham,” he said, voice strained. “There’s been an accident. Stacey… she’s gone.”
I remember standing so still that the world felt like it tilted around me.
“No,” I said. “That’s impossible. I talked to her last night.”
