Lucy started crying. “The police lied to you. It wasn’t the way Aaron told you it was.”
She looked past me, and I turned, following her gaze to the man sleeping beside me in an old police T-shirt.
Aaron.
The man who told me my husband’s death was an accident.
If anything happens to me, don’t believe what you’re told.
At first, Aaron was just part of the wreckage, someone standing close enough to help me stay upright.
He was so good with my girls, and the house felt less empty on the nights he came by.
Months turned into years.
Then, one winter night, he leaned in close — a moment that stopped just short of a kiss.
“I… I don’t know if this is right,” he whispered.
“I don’t either,” I replied.
A moment that stopped just short of a kiss.
We both resisted at first, but at some point, I started to believe grief could make room for something else.
I believed Ben would want me to be happy.
Aaron and I had only been together for three months that night Lucy found the note.
For the first time, looking at Aaron sleeping beside me made icy fear crawl down my back.
I did not sleep again that night.
I believed Ben would want me to be happy.
By morning, I had already decided what I was going to do.
