I’m 46, and for nearly two years, I’ve lived in a house that feels more like a mausoleum than a home. It’s silent, except for the occasional hum of the refrigerator or the distant sound of traffic on the street outside.
Two years ago, my entire life ended in a single, careless moment: a drunk driver on the wrong side of the road claimed my husband and both my children.
Mark, my husband of 18 years; Emily, my bright, spirited 14-year-old daughter; and Josh, my awkward, sweet 16-year-old son — all gone in an instant.
Since that night, I’ve been moving through rooms full of echoes, of laughter that no longer exists, of ghosts that sit silently in corners, waiting for me to notice them. I don’t live anymore. I exist. Barely. Some days, I still wonder why it affects me so deeply. I wake up, drag myself out of bed, make coffee that nobody drinks, look around at the house…
