Imagine burying a loved one, only to see them alive again. When my son spotted his “dead” mother on our beach vacation, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The truth I uncovered was far more heartbreaking than her death. I never thought I’d experience grief so young, but here I am at 34, a widower with a 5-year-old son. The last time I saw my wife Stacey two months ago, her chestnut hair smelled of lavender as I kissed her goodbye. Then, a phone call that will forever be etched in my memory shattered my world… 
His words faded into a dull roar. I don’t remember the flight home, just stumbling into our empty house. Stacey’s parents had already arranged everything. The funeral was over, and I hadn’t been able to say goodbye. “We didn’t want to wait,” her mother said, avoiding my eyes. “It was better this way.” I was too numb to argue. I should have fought harder. I should have demanded to see her, to say goodbye.
But grief does funny things to your mind. It clouds your judgment and makes you accept things you’d normally question. I threw myself into work and hired a nanny for Luke. But the house felt like a mausoleum. Stacey’s clothes still hung in the closet and her favorite mug sat unwashed by the sink. Every corner held a memory, and those memories were slowly haunting me.
One morning, as I watched Luke push his cereal around his bowl, barely eating, I knew we needed a change. “Hey champ, how about we go to the beach?” I asked, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. “Mommy!” Luke cried, but I scooped him up. “We need to go, buddy.” “But Dad, it’s Mom! Didn’t you see her? Why didn’t she come say hi?” I carried him back to our room, my mind reeling. It couldn’t be. I’d buried her. Hadn’t I? But I knew what I saw. That was Stacey. My wife. Luke’s mother. The woman I thought was dead.
The next morning, I took Luke to the kids’ club in the resort along with his nanny. “I’ve got a surprise for you later, champ!” I promised, hating myself for the lie. I spent hours combing the beach, the shops, and the restaurants. No sign of Stacey or her companion. With each passing hour, my frustration grew. Was I going crazy? Had I imagined the whole thing? Tears streamed down her face. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t face you. This way, everyone could move on.”
“Move on? I thought you were DEAD! Do you know what it’s like to tell your five-year-old son his mother is never coming home?” “Abraham, please try to understand—” “Understand what? That you’re a liar? A cheater? That you let me grieve while you ran off with your lover?”
