When my name is Maya, and at thirty-eight, I was learning how to live in a world that no longer included my husband. Daniel and I had shared eleven years of marriage, years filled with ordinary routines and quiet promises about growing old together. His illness changed everything. For nearly two years, our lives revolved around treatments, hospital visits, and hope that came in small, fragile doses. When he passed away, the silence he left behind felt overwhelming. It was just me and our six-year-old daughter, Lucy, trying to move forward one careful day at a time, balancing grief with responsibility, love with exhaustion.
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