I was forty-one when I agreed to marry my late husband’s best friend, convinced I had already endured the sharpest edges of grief. I believed in second chances, in the idea that life could still surprise me. What I didn’t expect was that our wedding night would confront me with a truth that forced me to reconsider loyalty, love, and how deeply the past can echo into the present.
For nearly two decades, I was Peter’s wife. We built an ordinary life that felt sacred in its simplicity: children, routines, small arguments, shared jokes. When a drunk driver ended his life six years ago, that ordinary world collapsed. Our children retreated into their own grief, and I wandered through the house haunted by the smallest reminders of him.
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