It’s been three years since you left me at the age of 26.. I’ll never forget the feeling I had when that cop knocked on our door. The feeling of him holding me crying while I held our baby. I couldn’t stop thinking about us bickering earlier that day—the last time I’d ever see you. If I would’ve known our days were limited, if I would’ve known that “until do us part” would come so soon, I would’ve done a lot of things differently. I would’ve stayed up more nights, tired, but happy because I wouldn’t have been so naive to believe that we had decades left to do it. Decades left to talk, laugh and touch you. I would’ve touched you more, and I would’ve let you touch me more instead of being solely focused on being a new mom. That’s what hurts the most. I’m surrounded by your words; cards, notes, text messages. I have all of that to re-read. I’m surrounded by the sight of you; while it’s not the same, your pictures are everywhere, and I see you every time I look at our daughter. If I miss the smell of you, I smell the cologne you wore. The one thing I don’t have and the biggest void to fill, is the loss of your touch. The warmth of your embrace. The hugs you’d greet me with every night after work and almost every time we’d part. I miss the feel of your lips on mine and the taste of your kiss. I miss the comfort you provided me, and I regret how naive I was for thinking it was mine to keep until we were old. You weren’t lying in your vows when you said you’d be with me until death. I was the end to your book and you were a chapter in mine. That’s the best way I can describe what this loss means for me and it’s a pain that’s unimaginable. I wanted you to be the end to my book, but I was stuck trying to write the next chapter. Alone. With a new baby. The next chapter didn’t seem possible. It felt like my story was over too, without a true ending. I didn’t know how to go forward without you. The truth is, I still don’t, but you left me with the greatest gifts—our daughter. You were selfless and kind. I know with certainty that you’d want me to be happy. You’d want me to find love again and someone that loves our daughter, but somehow it still feels like I’m betraying you whenever I get close to moving on.. I know it’ll get easier someday. I know you’re with me in spirit. Sometimes I question an afterlife, but I hope it exists, so that there’s a life with you and I again someday. I love you forever.