We became friends instantly. He would push my chair without asking, argue with me about music, and sit beside me even when there were plenty of empty seats elsewhere. Somewhere between rehearsals and friendship, we began dating. Martin never once made me feel different. My wheelchair didn’t bother him at all.
At 20, he proposed: “I don’t want to do life without you.”
Of course, I said yes.
Martin and I built a life together.
A home that was always full. Two children, Jane and Jake, who grew up faster than I was ready for. Later, grandchildren filled the quiet spaces.
When you’ve known someone that long, they become part of how you understand the world—like breathing, like time itself. You don’t imagine life without them.
Until one day, you must.
This past winter, Martin died.
I sat beside him at the end, holding his hand, trying to think of something important to say. But when the moment came, all I managed was, “I’m right here.”
And then… he wasn’t.
The loss was unbearable. The house no longer felt like mine. At first, neighbors, friends, and family came by, but eventually, everyone returned to their own lives. I tried to do the same, for the sake of my children and grandchildren.
But Martin’s office remained untouched. His chair sat where he left it, his glasses still on the desk, even his coffee mug waiting. I told myself I’d deal with it later. And “later” kept moving further away.
Yesterday, Jane came over. She didn’t ask—she never does.
“Mom,” she said, setting her bag down. “I’m going to help you pack Dad’s things today.”
“I’m not ready.”
She gave me that look, the one she inherited from Martin.
“You don’t have to do it alone.”
That was enough.
For the first time in months, I entered Martin’s office.
I lingered near the doorway while Jane busied herself with shelves and papers. Slowly, I rolled toward the desk.
That’s when I noticed one drawer wouldn’t open. I pulled again. Nothing.
“Jane,” I asked, “did you know about this?”
“About what?”
“This drawer. It’s locked.”
She frowned. “Dad didn’t lock his drawers.”
“Exactly what I thought.”
But here it was—locked.
Leave a Comment