The weeks after my husband passed away felt unreal, as if I were moving through a version of life that no longer belonged to me. The house looked the same, but everything felt hollow. His belongings were still where he left them, especially his phone, which sat untouched on the nightstand. I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off. In my grief, it felt like the last remaining connection to him.
One quiet afternoon, everything changed. While doing chores, I heard the familiar notification sound from his phone. My heart raced. When I checked the screen, I saw a message about a recent charge at a nearby hotel. Seconds later, another message appeared saying someone was already there waiting. Panic and hope collided in a way I can’t fully explain. I knew it made no sense, yet grief has a way of bending logic. Before I could talk myself out of it, I was in my car, driving.