My name is Daisy. I am eighty-three years old, and for the past four months, I have been navigating the strange, uncharted world of widowhood. Four months is a sliver of time compared to the sixty-three years I shared with Robert. Yet, these four months have stretched like an endless winter afternoon, hollow and echoing, as if the walls themselves mourn with me. Each day begins and ends with the quiet reminder that he is not here—not in the morning sunlight that once danced on our kitchen table, not in the subtle warmth… CONTINUE READING…
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