You never know how loud an empty house can be until you're the only one left inside it. It's not just the absence of noise; it's the way the air hums, the way the refrigerator buzzes, and the way the quiet presses on your chest when you're trying to sleep.
Fourteen months ago, my husband, Ethan, was killed in the line of duty. He was a police officer, the kind who ran toward trouble.
He didn't come home from his last call. I thought the worst part would be the funeral. It wasn't; it was what came after, when the sympathy food stopped coming, the house emptied out, and I was left staring at the pile of laundry on our bedroom floor, still smelling like him.
Since then, it's just been me and Mason.
He didn't come home from his last call.
