You call it loyalty.
Your wife, Marina, died in a car accident on a coastal highway six hours from your city. At least that is the story that has held your life together long enough for it to become furniture. Police report. Closed casket. Funeral in her hometown church. A mother collapsing into your arms, small and shaking, and telling you she had nothing left. You remember looking at the coffin and thinking that if love alone could force wood open, yours would.
At the graveside, you promised Clara you would take care of her.
Marina always worried about her mother. That was true. Clara was a widow with fragile health and a pension too small for dignity. So while people were still passing tissues and whispering prayers, you bent toward that trembling old woman and said, “You won’t be alone. I’ll send money every month. Whatever you need. It’s what Marina would have wanted.”
For years, you treat that promise like scripture.
You do not remarry.
You do not really date.
You tell yourself you are working too much, healing too slowly, honoring her memory properly.
