When my husband first died, I dove into our text thread. I lived inside his words—his professions of love, his recounting of the ordinary. He sent me his sweet little mijoji, the one surrounded by hearts.
I followed his last journey in those messages: his trip into the ER, then to the hospital, then his promise that he’d be home in a few days. He did come home—just not to our house. He came home to Heaven.
After he died, I started sending him texts. Updating him on the kids. Telling him I was holding everything together, being strong. I reassured him that it was hard for them, but that “the babies”—as we always called our kids—were living life. We were pushing onward. All of us.
I kept it up for a while. But as months turned into years, I did it less and less.
It was our 25th wedding anniversary. I texted him to say how much I missed him. How I remembered celebrating our 20th at Pinehurst, at the inn, with spa treatments and gourmet meals, and dressing up fancy. The last anniversary we spent together.
And then I got a reply.
Gulp.
Someone had his number.
I explained who I was. My circumstances.
They replied with a plea for money.
They actually asked me for money.
I wrote: Do you have any idea what it’s like to lose someone you love?
No, they replied. They were twenty. They were broke. They needed money.
I blocked his number.
Sometimes, I can’t believe this is my life…