I visited my husband’s grave on the fifth anniversary of his death and found a black bag on it — my knees buckled when I opened it.
My name is Megan. Five years ago, I lost my husband, Paul, in a devastating highway accident. He was only 34. We had shared nine beautiful years of marriage, and losing him shattered a part of me I still struggle to put back together.
Every anniversary, I take the morning off and visit his grave. I bring yellow flowers, the same ones he used to place on our kitchen table, little reminders of the love that once filled our home.
People tell me it’s time to move on. And I have, in some ways. I work, spend time with friends, and have even tried dating again. But no matter how much life moves forward, my heart still returns to Paul.
This year, my sister offered to accompany me.
