For most of our marriage, I believed my husband felt nothing deeply. Sam had a way of moving through life that felt impenetrable, as if emotion simply slid off him. When our sixteen-year-old son died in a sudden accident, my world shattered. I screamed, cried, stopped functioning altogether.
Sam did none of those things.
At the hospital, he stood motionless, hands folded, eyes dry. At the funeral, his expression never wavered. When we returned home to a house stripped of noise and laughter, he retreated into schedules, work, and long silences. I mistook his stillness for absence. His quiet felt like abandonment.
Grief is lonely—but believing you’re grieving alone inside a marriage is unbearable.
Bit by bit, resentment replaced compassion. Conversations disappeared. We stopped reaching for each other. Eventually, what remained between us wasn’t anger—it was emptiness. I left the city, chasing distance I thought might feel like healing. Sam stayed. He remarried. We became strangers linked only by a shared loss we never spoke of again.
Twelve years later, he died without warning. Sudden. Final. The way our son had.
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
