I thought I had buried my past with my husband, who I thought had died three years earlier. He was alive, smiling, and holding a woman and a girl’s hands on a distant beach. My world collapsed again.
Was it him? Why was he with another family? You picture decades ahead when you marry someone—a shared house, possibly children, and the peaceful comfort of knowing they’ll be by your side as your hair turns silver and your skin creases.
You never expect that dream to end overnight. Nobody prepares you for the idea that the person you love most could go without a trace, leaving you with a heartbeat but no existence. Marcus, my spouse, adored the sea.
He escaped and found refuge. Despite its modesty, his boat was his pride. When job or life stresses were high, he would fish, swim, or drift on the waves.
Usually, he invited me or a buddy, but sometimes he wanted solitude. He went alone that day. A dreadful feeling has gripped me since morning.
I was early pregnant, so I thought the nerves were related. Maybe I was worried about the baby. My worry grew greater when Marcus stated he wanted to take the boat out.
“Please don’t go,” I pleaded, holding his hand. His easy, reassuring smile. “Everything will be fine, Lily.
My absence will be brief.” He kissed my forehead, put my palm to his lips, and left. I never saw him again. The storm struck unexpectedly.
The morning was clear, but within hours the wind roared, waves broke like walls, and Marcus’s boat overturned. His body was never found after days of searching. He felt like the ocean had engulfed him.
I broke. My pregnancy ended in miscarriage due to grief. In one week, I lost my spouse and our dream baby.
I went to work, cooked meals, and pretended to breathe, but I was never genuinely alive. Three years. Though never gone, the pain subsided.
All that time, I avoided the ocean. My stomach turned at the prospect of standing on a shore. I soon recognized I had to face it to heal.
But not at home. It was too ghostly on our local beaches. I planned a week at a resort in another state in hopes of a change of scenery.
Mom fretted endlessly. “Lily, you shouldn’t go alone,” she said. I told her, “I need to.”
“Take a friend.
Or invite me.”
“I don’t have friends anymore,” I remarked. It was true. Because of my grief, I kept everyone out after Marcus’s death.
People gave up. “Then I’ll come,” she demanded. “No, Mom.
I must do this alone.”
Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she observed me. “You’ve been alone three years. Wasn’t that enough?
“I need this,” I murmured, my voice breaking. “Please.”
Finally, she yielded. “Alright.
Follow your conscience.”
Two days later, I reached the resort. My room faced the lake, the horizon infinite beyond the glass. I couldn’t walk on the beach.
I froze in the doorway and turned back every time. Second morning, I forced myself to leave. I wore a swimsuit, brought a towel and sunscreen, and carefully approached the sand.
I felt like lead weights were on my ankles with every step. After reaching the shore, I sat on a lounge chair with my towel, watching the waves. The sun shone on a tranquil ocean.
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