Nobody Tells You There’s a Third Option After Loss

“Moving on” never felt right. Here’s what I found instead.

It was August, a few months after my husband Ken died. I’d poured a glass of cabernet and carried it out to the garden he’d tended for years. The angel trumpets were in bloom, their sweet scent lingering around me. Their aroma competed with the way summer evenings smell when you’re simultaneously grateful and gutted.

I was about to read a message Ken had…