FILED UNDER: GRIEF (THE THING ABOUT REMEMBERING HIM)_ BY OPEYEMI
After my fifth disaster of a relationship, I'd decided my love life was simply programmed to fail.
That was before I met my husband. The best, most caring man you would ever meet.
If you had met him, you would have understood.
He was not perfect. I suppose that is the first thing I should say. He left cabinet doors open sometimes. He could be forgetful in the most inconvenient ways. Anniversaries never slipped his mind, but the little things did. Like buying essentials on the way home, or replying a message he had already opened. He always meant to remember, he just didn’t. He hated admitting weakness, sometimes pretending he was fine when he was clearly falling apart.
But he was kind.
The type of kindness you would only notice if you paid close attention. It lived in the way he would listen when I spoke, like my words were the most important thing in the world.
It showed in how he would move to the outer side of the sidewalk without thinking, how he memorized the way I took my tea after only seeing me make it once. How he would text me, “How are you feeling now?” “Is there anything you need me to help with?" when I had a bad day.
To some, this may count as the bare minimum, but it was more than enough for me. I'd never experienced that kind of love. I always thought I was unworthy of it.
We met on a Tuesday.
Just a random Tuesday afternoon, in a bookstore where I was sitting cross-legged on the floor between shelves. He told me I was blocking the history section. I told him he didn’t look like someone who read history anyway.
He raised an eyebrow.
I remember that gesture more than I remember the book I was holding.
We were friends before we were anything else. That’s what I loved most about us. There was no rush. No performance. We built something steady. We shared book recommendations and favorite authors. We talked about dreams and fears. We sat in comfortable silence without needing to fill it. Somewhere between late-night conversations and laughing at each other's bad jokes, I suddenly couldn't imagine my life without him.
He proposed at my favorite place in the world. I only mentioned it to him once and he remembered. Of course he did.
I still remember the very first words he spoke. His hands trembled (which he will deny if you ever ask him). He simply looked at me like I was the only thing in existence and said, “To me, there are only two types of people in this world: there is you, and there is everyone else. I don’t want to do life without you.”
I said yes before he could even finish asking.
My friends cried. My family celebrated like they had been waiting for this moment longer than I had.
Our wedding wasn’t extravagant. There were no crystal chandeliers or imported flowers. But it was everything I had ever dreamed of.
Not because of the dress. Not because of the venue. Not even because of the music.
But because of him.
Because when I walked toward him, and he looked at me like that, as if I was the miracle and not the other way around, I knew I had chosen right.
It's safe to say I married my best friend.
And now… he was gone.
Barely 3 years into our marriage and the cruel hands of death took him away.
Most days I just lie in bed, wearing one of his sweaters, inhaling his scent and trying to imagine he was still here. Trying to trick my body into believing his arms are still wrapped around me, that if I turn over slowly enough, I’ll find him there.
It has been hard getting used to an empty house.
I have no one to binge-watch movies with. No one to argue with about which show we should start next. He always pretended not to care, but he would secretly read reviews beforehand so he could “accidentally” pick the better one.
Sometimes he’d fall asleep halfway through a movie, and I’d sit there listening to the rhythm of his breathing instead of the dialogue.
The sofa feels too big now.
That corner seat by the end table was his favorite spot. He’d sink into it after work, loosen his tie, and stretch his legs out like he’d conquered something monumental.
I still can’t bring myself to sit there.
The kitchen is worse.
He used to hum while he cooked. Annoyingly off-key and rather loudly. He insisted he made the best scrambled eggs in the world, even though he slightly over-salted them. I used to complain just to watch him defend his “recipe.”
Now the stove stays cold most nights.
I stand there sometimes, staring at the space where he used to lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like I was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
His mug is still in the cabinet. The chipped blue one he refused to throw away because “it has character.”
I can’t touch it. I’m afraid if I move it, something inside me will finally accept that he isn’t coming back for it.
Even the bathroom mirror haunts me. I used to find little notes he’d paste there after his showers. “You’re beautiful.” “Don’t forget your lunch.” “Smile today.”
Now the mirror just reflects me.
Alone.
I remember all these things, but that's all they really are… memories.
Sometimes I catch myself talking out loud, telling him about my day the way I always did. I still turn to the other side of the bed before I remember.
Grief is strange like that.
The house hasn’t changed. The walls are the same. The furniture hasn’t moved.
But everything feels… misplaced.
Like the heart of it was removed, and the rest is just structure.
There is no home without him.
I can't even bring myself to clean out the closet where his clothes hung. They just sit there, as if waiting for their owner to return from a long trip.
But he wasn't coming back.
The only mistake he made was not taking me along. Because I truly believe anything is better than this hollow repetitive life I'm living without him.
I suppose, in a way, my love life really is programmed to fail.
And I don't believe I will ever love another man. Not the way I loved him.
© Yemi and the Pen
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