She moved through our home like a ghost, her hand unconsciously drifting to her stomach as if trying to protect something that was no longer there. I tried everything—therapy, patience, quiet presence—but her grief was a deep, dark place I couldn’t follow her into.
One freezing January night, driven by desperation I couldn’t explain, I found myself sitting alone in the back of a small, empty church. I’m not a particularly religious man, but the silence there felt big enough to hold my pain. I didn’t pray for miracles or for the impossible. I whispered just one plea into the emptiness: “Please—give my wife her joy back.”
I left feeling unchanged, the cold air burning my lungs. On my way to the car, I cut through a narrow alley behind a laundromat, lit by flickering streetlights that cast long, skeletal shadows.
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