My name is Eleanor. I’m 71, and two years after burying the love of my life, I married his best friend. I told myself it was a second chance at companionship, at warmth, at not sitting alone in a house still echoing with memories.
I never expected my wedding night to unravel the truth about the night my husband died. Two years ago, my husband Conan was killed by a drunk driver on Route 7. The driver fled, and Conan died before the ambulance arrived.
Grief hollowed me out. I stopped cooking, stopped answering the phone. I would wake up reaching for him, only to remember the emptiness beside me. The only person who kept me from disappearing entirely was Charles — Conan’s best friend since childhood.