My name is Margaret, I’m 65, and fifteen years ago my whole world collapsed when my husband, George, died of a sudden heart attack.
We had built our little house from the ground up — brick by brick, dream by dream. Every inch of it carried his presence. His tools still hung neatly in the shed, untouched since the last day he used them. The porch swing he surprised me with one summer still creaked softly in the morning breeze. And the lilac bush by the fence? George planted it for me on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.
