I Lost My Wife To A Drunk Driver And I Thought I’d Never Be Able To See Her Again

He didn’t know that every morning before I went to work I would kiss him on the forehead, just in case something happened and I didn’t get to see him that evening. I did it on the morning of the accident, too.

And he didn’t know the most important part of the deal I made with Death.

Dying itself wasn’t painful. You know what was painful? Watching Andrew suffer, with me not being able to do anything. I could only watch. I watched him pray to gods I know he didn’t believe in just to see me one more time. I saw him staring at the kitchen knives we bought together, imagining slicing his own skin open. I saw him crying over the pink silk nightgown that I bought for our honeymoon.

Those moments were even more painful that this corpse-like existence.

That’s why I made the deal. That’s why I did what I did. I thought I was helping him. I didn’t understand what kind of burden I was giving him.

When I came back it was bliss. Sure, the first night was hard. I know that my sudden appearance did a number on him. I know that he was confused and scared. But I thought it didn’t matter. Because now we were together and now we could be happy…. And we were happy, for longer than I deserved.

Why did I follow him downstairs that night? It’s a good question. And I’m sorry I don’t have a better answer. In that one moment of adrenaline and fear, looking at Andrew and know how vulnerable and fragile life his was, I forgot Death’s conditions. Andrew jumped out of the room and I went wild, everything in my mind and heart going blank, except for Andrew’s face.

And, as you’ve already read, everything fell apart.


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