It has been exactly one year since I lost David. People say it gets better, but I’ve found that grief is a kind of disease for which no cure can be found.
I try to keep busy, to keep drowning out the silence in the house. And those days when life and its living proves harder than usual, I feel your absence all the more. It’s the physical absence that hurts the most—there is no comfort from your embrace, no soothing from your voice, no ease of my being by the sight of you soft in my eyes.
So, when Phil called a few weeks back, I welcomed the distraction. She was so excited she could barely contain it: “I need your help — Ryan and I are throwing a tiny engagement party. It’s a surprise, don’t tell a soul!”. She asked me specifically because I’m good at decorating.
That’s how I became the party planner, burying my own sorrow under piles of pink and gold balloons, fairy lights, and silk flowers—all those festive touches. It felt strange to be curating joy while feeling so empty. Every time I tried to get more information about the proposal, Sophie just giggled nervously and insisted, “don’t jinx it”.
The prep day was a whirlwind. I darted between shops like I was on a mission, then spent hours at the venue decking it out until it looked absolutely magical.
Then the evening arrived. I had that satisfying feeling of doing something good for people you love. I pushed open the hall doors with a huge smile, ready to see Sophie’s happiness… and I suddenly froze.
The room was filled not with Ryan’s family awaiting an engagement announcement, but with my family and friends. A large photo of David sat on a central table, surrounded by the fairy lights I had just strung up.
Sophie stepped forward, her eyes wet. “We knew today was the one-year mark, Elena. There’s no engagement. We just knew you wouldn’t come if we told you the truth. We couldn’t let you be alone tonight.”
I was overwhelmed. In my isolation, I had forgotten that I wasn’t just one person grieving; I was part of a community. It reminded me of a story I read online about a mother who posted a funny photo of her “grumpy” baby, only for a stranger to comment that the baby had severe jaundice and needed the ER immediately. That stranger saved the baby’s life. I realized then that my friends were doing the same for me; they were a modern-day village looking out for us, proving that sometimes others’ concern can mean the difference between life and death—or at least, between despair and hope.
As I hugged Phil, she slipped a small envelope into my hand. “David left this in his desk,” she whispered. “We found it when we were helping you pack up his office.”
I stepped away to open it. In his familiar handwriting were words that finally brought peace to the chaotic year of sorrow.
It read: “My love, don’t be afraid of the quiet. In memory and dream I am returned to you, returned home. Never forget that in the memory of my heart our forever continues“.
