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

Nothing was ever the same, and grief never disappears, you just learn to experience it differently. I had moved on as much as I ever would.

Five years, two months, twelve days, four hours, and two minutes after the moment I lost her, I got her back.

I’m an editor for our local newspaper, not too bad a job. She would be proud of me. But sometimes I get back sort of late at night. This happened to be one of those nights.

I trudged in around eleven, thinking that I’d grab a beer since I’d been particularly productive that day and, hell, I deserved one. Her voice wafted to me from the kitchen.

“Hi, honey, you’re back so late!”

Her soft, sweet voice froze me in place.

After she’d passed, I’d often have dreams where she was still alive. She’d convince me that everything that had passed had been nothing but a misunderstanding, and I’d always end up believing her. I’d hold her in my arms and just as I was about to kiss her, I’d wake up on that grungy couch, tears already starting to form in my eyes as reality sunk back in all too quickly.

I figured I was having another one of those dreams.

I squatted down and tried to steady my breathing. It had helped with my panic attacks in the past, maybe it would help me stay calm now. I inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to will myself to wake up.

And then she popped around the corner.


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