My mother died on Christmas Eve, 2017. Under the weight of that first grief, I consoled myself with a private hope: that I would grow closer to my mother-in-law, who was 15 years younger than my mom. It felt like a small mercy, a second chance at maternal closeness.
And then days later, without warning, she suffered a massive stroke and died.
Now, my youngest daughter is leaving for college in 18 days. I find myself searching for comfort, imagining long walks and quiet dinners with my husband Robert. A season of reconnection. A slower pace. Time for just us.
But beneath that vision, there’s a low-grade hum of dread. A slow burn of anxiety I can’t quite name. I worry that one week after I become an empty nester, I’ll become a widow.
It feels irrational. Robert is in perfect health. But grief has taught me how suddenly the world can change. And how hope, even when held with great confidence, can vanish without warning. So, I try to say it now, say it often: how much I love the way he slices watermelon, walks the dogs, folds his T-shirts and builds the most perfect lunch plate: Soft white bread layered with lettuce, tomato, and deli-sliced London Broil. Always with chips and fruit on the side.
I love how he hand-waters the lawn after dark. I catch a glimpse of him in the glow of the porch light, standing under the Shumard Oak. The arc of water from the hose catches the streetlight and glows like strands of liquid glass. In those quiet moments, I feel grateful just to witness the grace of Robert on an ordinary day.