Last night, as I climbed into  bed with my husband, who was already asleep, I thought of her. My body found its usual space next to hers, familiar and safe, comforted by the silent presence of someone who has always been there. His breathing was regular, his hand extended, even in sleep, as if he were reaching for me without realizing it. I lay there, looking at him, the gentle rhythm of his chest rising and falling, and for a moment I felt the weight of comfort. But the next moment, I thought of Erika.

How did it feel to slide into a bed that suddenly seemed too big, too empty, too unbearable? How did it feel to snuggle up without his presence, without the warmth of the man who once filled her nights with laughter, whispered dreams, and the quiet assurance that she was never alone? That night was her first without him, and the first in an eternity. My chest tightened as I imagined the hollow echo of his silence.

She had to put her children to bed without him. The ritual she might once have shared—the way he might have read them a bedtime story, or the way he kissed each forehead goodnight—was now hers alone. I imagined his hand smoothing her hair, his voice straining to sound firm, even playful, while her heart cried out for his absence. And then, the questions. The little voices asking, “Where’s Dad?” The pain of answering again, and then again, and again, each time louder than the last. What do you say when you yourself can’t understand? How do you explain to a child that their anchor is gone forever?

I thought about the times I might wake up in the middle of the night, my heart racing, the sudden wave of panic washing over me, believing for a moment it was just a nightmare. Only to turn over and discover the nightmare was real. That the other side of the bed would remain empty. That no amount of tears or prayers could undo what had happened. The fear of that realization pressed my thoughts like a cold stone against my chest.

And then there was the image—horrible, haunting—of his death, repeated every time she closed her eyes. A memory that was no longer just a memory, but a scar, imposing itself on her in flashes and echoes. Watching him die from a gunshot wound, over and over again, her mind unable to protect her from what her heart couldn’t bear. I wondered how she managed to breathe under the weight of such torment.

What pain she must have felt in her chest, her heart plummeting into the pit of her stomach, her body shaking with a pain so intense it sapped her of her strength. She must have cried herself to sleep, her tears soaking the pillow that had once held her dreams. The sound of her sobs faded into the darkness, where no one could hear her heart breaking. She must have known, as her body ached with exhaustion, that she would never again hold his hand, never again trace the lines of his palm, never again look into the eyes of “her love story,” the man who had not only been her husband, but her best friend.

Erika.

I whispered his name silently, as if by doing so I could send him some comfort. Know this: Last night, as I lay down next to my husband, my heart broke with you.

The world can feel cruelly indifferent to grief. People say words, send flowers, offer hugs, and yet, the silence remains. But in that silence, I wanted Erika to feel something else: that she is loved. That even though the emptiness she carries cannot be filled, she is not left to carry it alone.

She is strong. Even though she may not feel it now, even though every step seems to sink into the sand, she carries within her a resilience that will rise, even in the darkest moments. She may not believe it, not today or tomorrow, but she will find that strength because love does not fade with death. It remains, rebuilt, present in the laughter of her children, in the memories they made together, in the way he once held her as if she were the only person in the world.

You can rise even when it seems impossible. You can wake up even when the weight of grief crushes you. You can breathe despite the panic, even when your body begs you not to. You can embrace your children, not with the arms of despair, but with the arms of a woman who knows that love—true and lasting love—cannot be destroyed by tragedy.

Last night, lying next to my husband, I realized how fragile the line is between everyday life and unimaginable loss. How easily a dinner, a conversation, a simple “goodnight” can become a final moment. Erika experienced what most of us fear but cannot understand. Her story is not hers alone; it is a reflection of the fragility of love, of how we desperately cling to those who complete us, never knowing when the final goodbye will come.

I thought about her courage, even though she doesn’t call it that.