Not the joyful kind, not anymore—but the quiet, aching kind that presses on your chest when the world seems too loud with happiness that no longer belongs to you.
Five years ago, I lost my wife, Eleanor. She was the kind of woman who made Christmas magical without trying—burning cookies, off-key carols, handwritten notes tucked into pockets. When she died, the holiday didn’t disappear. It just changed. It became a mirror, reflecting everything I’d lost.
I’m forty-six now. No children. No family dinners. Just memories and a carefully arranged loneliness I’ve learned to live with.Continue reading…
