My husband died right after we got married, but when I stepped into a taxi, he turned around and looked at me!

ramed pictures, his voice echoing in the empty rooms. My phone buzzed constantly with calls from his family, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. Their voicemails grew sharper, more demanding. I was unraveling.

I packed a bag in desperation, threw in my passport, and called for a taxi. I didn’t know where I was going—maybe out of the city, maybe out of the country. I just knew I had to run from the grief and the storm his family was stirring up.

When the cab pulled up, I climbed into the backseat without even glancing at the driver. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, fighting back tears.

“Put on your seatbelt, please,” the driver said.