I never imagined that grief could hit this hard at 34. But there I was—widowed, alone, and trying to raise my five-year-old son, Luke. Two months ago, my world had been perfect—or at least, I thought it was. My wife, Stacey, with her chestnut hair that always smelled faintly of lavender, kissed me goodbye as I left for Seattle. I had no idea that would be the last time I saw her alive. Then came the call that tore my life apart. “Abraham, there’s been an accident. Stacey… she’s gone.”

The day it all started is burned into my memory, sharp and heavy. The car ride was nothing but silence and tension. Dad gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were pale, while I sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out the window. The steady thump of the tires on the road didn’t calm me—it just made the silence louder, like a drumbeat under all the words we weren’t saying. Finally, I snapped.“Why do I have to do this on my day off? Couldn’t you have taken

Anastasia always imagined her backyard would be her little escape—a quiet place where she could relax, enjoy her garden, and sip tea in peace. But ever since her neighbors, Sandra and John, moved in with their four kids, her yard had become something else entirely: a playground she never signed up for. The kids loved one thing the most: the old trampoline. It had been sitting in the backyard since Anastasia’s sister, Emma, was young. To Anastasia, it was just an old memory, but to the kids next door, it