Three years ago, my life broke cleanly into two distinct halves.
Before—and after.
Before, my husband was alive. After, his absence settled into everything, pressing against my chest like a constant weight. He was a police officer—calm under pressure, disciplined, dependable. The kind of man who didn’t hesitate when alarms blared or chaos erupted. Running toward danger wasn’t just part of his job; it was who he was. Protecting others defined him.
One afternoon, during what should have been an ordinary lunch break, his heart suddenly failed. A massive cardiac arrest. It happened on a crowded city street filled with commuters, delivery vans, and people absorbed in their phones—people who slowed only long enough to step around inconvenience.