Two months of living in a house full of ghosts
The next two months crawled.
I threw myself into work because silence at home was unbearable. I hired a nanny to help with Luke because I couldn’t keep it together long enough to be everything he needed.
Our house felt like a museum of Stacey.
Her clothes still hung in the closet.
Her favorite mug sat unwashed by the sink like I was waiting for her to walk in and laugh at my laziness.
Every corner held a memory, and every memory felt like a trap.
One morning, Luke sat at the table pushing cereal around his bowl, barely eating. He looked smaller than he had any right to look.
That’s when I knew we needed a change of air.
“Hey champ,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice. “How about we go to the beach?”
His eyes lit up for the first time in weeks. “Can we build sandcastles?”
“You bet,” I said. “And maybe we’ll see dolphins.”
For the first time, I felt something that wasn’t just grief.
Hope.
We checked into a beachfront hotel. Days became routine: sunscreen, towels, waves, ice cream, bedtime stories.
I watched Luke splash in the water, laughing like his body remembered how to be a child even if his heart didn’t.
I almost forgot the pain.
Almost.
On our third day, I was staring out at the ocean, lost in thought, when Luke came running toward me like he’d just found treasure.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
I smiled automatically. “What is it?”
He pointed toward the beach crowd, breathless with excitement.
“Dad,” he said, eyes wide. “Look… Mom’s back!”
My blood ran cold.
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