Impossible to Prepare for the Void Within

You can never truly prepare for emptiness.

I never thought Id go through a second divorce. After it happened, I was drainednot just emotionally, but physically. I wanted no one near me. I shut myself off from the world, wore the same old jeans, stopped shaving, made sure I looked unkemptanything to signal I wasnt open to new connections. Love, I had decided, was a sickness Id finally cured.

And then she appeared.

We met by chanceat a mutual friends birthday. At first, I barely noticed her. She was laughing at someones joke, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes alive and sharp, faintly teasing. When we finally spoke, I realised she wasnt just another pretty faceshe was someone who looked deeper. She asked questions, listenednot out of politeness, but because she genuinely cared.

That night, we talked until dawn. For the first time in years, I laughedreally laughed. And by morning, I knew something inside me had shifted.

From that day on, we were inseparable. A year later, we married. Seventeen yearsevery single one of them meaningful. She wasnt just my wife. She was my compass, my best friend, my conscience. She could dissolve tension with a single joke, hold me in a way that made everything still.

Her name was Eleanor.

She loved life in its smallest detailsmorning coffee in the garden, old black-and-white films, the smell of fresh bread shed bake just because. Shed always say, Happiness isnt something you inventits something you notice.

When the doctors gave us the diagnosis, we sat in silence. She gripped my hand and said, We wont cry now, all right? Therell be time for that later, if we need to.

Eighteen months of fighting. Chemo, hospitals, exhaustion, painbut she never surrendered. Even when her hair fell out, she joked about saving time on styling. Her strength amazed meand terrified me, because I could only watch as she faded, helpless.

Three months ago, she was gone.

The world went quiet. Too quiet. Our house stayed exactly as it washer favourite mug on the table, the blanket she always curled under on the sofa, a book left open at the page shed never finish. And me, standing in the middle of it all, like a film someone had paused.

Our son keeps me going. Hes sixteen. My anchor. I dont know what Id do without him. Weve grown closer than ever. We talk about hernot as someone gone, but as someone still just nearby. Hell say, Dad, Mum wouldve loved how you made this pasta, and Ill smile, because it was her who taught me to cook, who insisted, A real man should know how to make breakfast and how to hold someone.

When the end was near, I tried to prepare. In my head, I rehearsed it allgoing to the shops alone, facing holidays alone, climbing into an empty bed. I thought if I imagined it enough, the reality wouldnt break me. But no amount of thought can ready you for the truth.

Because grief doesnt come from the big losses. Its the little things.

Every Sunday, wed watch *Antiques Roadshow* together. Our tiny ritual. Wed guess prices, argue, laugh. Now, I still turn it on. Sit in the same spot. But beside meonly silence. When someone onscreen gasps at a valuation, I still turn, out of habit, expecting to see her reaction. But she isnt there. And in those moments, the emptiness crushes me so hard I could scream.

I keep going. Make breakfast. Clean. Take our son to the cinema. Weve even planted her favourite flowers in the garden again. But the hardest part is every night, when the lights go off. You can hug a pillow all you wantit doesnt smell like love.

And yet, despite it all, Im grateful. Because I was lucky enough to know her. Seventeen years by her sidemore than some get in a lifetime. She left pieces of herself in mein the words I use, the habits I keep, in our son.

Sometimes, I swear shes still here. In the rustle of turning pages. The whistle of the kettle. The way sunlight slants through the window, just how she liked it.

I know, one day, Ill laugh without bitterness. But for now, Im learning to live againnot without her, but with her in my memory.

Because love doesnt vanish when the body goes quiet. It just changes formbecomes a quiet light, guiding you through the dark.