Three years ago, the sea took my husband. Anthony left that morning on what was meant to be a brief fishing trip before a storm. The horizon glowed a warning red—sailors’ omen—but he kissed my forehead, smiled, and promised bad weather didn’t frighten him. That was our last moment together.
Days later, the Coast Guard found his boat adrift and empty. Anthony was gone—no body, no explanation—leaving only silence and the remnants of our life. I mourned deeply.
Within weeks, I lost the baby I was carrying. Nights dragged, days felt hollow. The ocean became my tormentor—limitless, cruel, taunting.
Years later, a quiet morning by a distant shore changed me. I booked a solo trip to stand again before the sea. The water was calm, the sky pale. Walking barefoot, breathing the salty air, I saw him. At first I thought grief was tricking me. A man ahead—laughing, with a woman and child—looked just like Anthony: broad shoulders, his gait, his dimpled smile. I called his name. He turned, and I froze. It was him—but he looked puzzled, unrecognizing.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Wrong person,” he added.
His companion pulled a little girl close, and they left—me trembling in the wet sand.
That evening, the woman knocked on my hotel door. She introduced herself as Kaitlyn. She explained “Drake” had washed ashore three years earlier, injured and amnesiac. She’d cared for him; they fell in love. The girl was hers, but Drake had become her daughter’s father. Her voice was steady, but her eyes seemed torn—compassion for me, fear of losing him.
The next day, I showed him our wedding photos and the ultrasound. His fingers shook as they traced my pregnant belly—but his eyes held no recognition.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember you,” he murmured. Behind him, Kaitlyn and her daughter’s laughter sounded like home.
I realized the man I loved had died, even if he still stood before me. My voice shook: “The man I loved passed away three years ago. Whoever you are now, your heart is here.” I left. Outside, the air was gentle, the sea peaceful. For the first time since that storm, I slept without feeling crushed by the ocean.
This was my farewell—and the moment I chose to begin living again—for myself.