Eight days after my wife’s funeral, a charge appeared on our joint account.
A car rental.
Grief turned into panic. I drove to the rental office, convinced it had to be a mistake. When I showed the clerk her photo, his expression changed.
“She was here,” he said quietly. “She knew what she was doing.”
He gave details I hadn’t asked for. A time. A destination. A smile.
I left without arguing, because reality had already slipped out of its frame.
Outside, life went on—cars passing, people laughing, the sky painfully normal. I sat in my car realizing how fragile certainty really is.
Maybe the clerk was wrong. Maybe grief was playing tricks on me. Or maybe not everything ends as cleanly as we expect.
That night, I didn’t search for answers. I reread her messages. Listened to old voicemails. Let the memories sit with me.
The charge was still there, but it no longer felt frightening. It felt like a question.
I understood then that closure isn’t something you’re given—it’s something you choose.
Love doesn’t disappear on a schedule. Sometimes it lingers. Sometimes it startles you. And sometimes it reminds you that endings don’t always mean silence—they just learn how to speak differently.
