The day my wife, Claire, died, the house seemed to forget how to breathe.
“You’ll never win an argument standing in a doorway, James,” she used to say, raising one perfectly arched brow over the rim of her reading glasses. “Come sit and face the music with me.”
I could still hear her voice, teasing, knowing, laced with that specific warmth that made even her criticisms feel like a hug. For a moment, the memory stopped me cold, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
She said that the day I suggested we paint the kitchen beige.
“Beige?” Her mouth had dropped open, full of theatrical offense, her eyes sparkling with feigned horror. “James, darling, we are not beige people. We are terracotta people. We are sage green people. But we are certainly not beige.”
And we weren’t. Not then. Not ever. We were vibrant, loud, messy, and deeply intertwined. She was my partner in everything—messy renovations, maddening debates about politics, and the magic of raising a family. And now, she was gone.
The silence she left behind had weight. It wasn’t just the absence of noise; it was a physical presence. It pressed on the walls, settled into the drywall, and seeped into my skin. And I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that it didn’t plan on leaving.
