After my wife Elizabeth’s fatal car accident, I was drowning in grief. At just 35 years old, I never imagined I’d become a widower, left alone to raise our two little girls, Sophie, 4, and Emma, 5. Elizabeth had been my anchor, and in an instant, she was gone, taken by what I believed was a tragic accident. The pain was so overwhelming, I could hardly breathe.
The funeral was almost unbearable. Our daughters kept asking where “Mommy” was, their innocent faces full of confusion. How could I explain something I barely understood myself? Elizabeth’s parents and sister helped with the arrangements, but none of us could truly comprehend the void her absence had left.
After the service, as I made my way back to the car in a daze, I sensed someone watching me. At first, I thought it was just my imagination, but then I noticed an old woman standing near the cemetery gates. She looked ancient, her face deeply lined, her eyes sharp and almost knowing. CONTINUE READING HERE
