The night Tony passed away will never leave me. We had just lifted him softly onto the bed, putting him in like we had done so many times before, when his breathing slowed and he let out one final breath. Just like that, his battle was over. My husband, my best friend, the father of our seven children, was gone at only 31 years old.
I broke down, clinging to his hand as it grew cold, pressing my face to his chest where I could no longer hear the heartbeat I loved so much. My own heart crushed until it felt like it had crushed into pieces. The pain was awful. I begged him to come back, but deep down I knew he never would. Everything we had dreamed of together ended in that moment, and I felt totally vanished.
The next morning, I tried to keep moving. In the shower, I noticed his razor still on the sill, tiny red strands from his beard caught on the blade. That small detail hit me like a wave, and I collapsed to the floor, wishing dreadfully that his death had only been a bad dream. But it wasn’t. Every empty space in the house screamed his absence, the cold side of the bed, his clothes gathering dust, the silence where his voice used to be.
Almost eight years earlier, doctors had told us this day would come. In 2009, Tony was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation gave us extra time, but in 2016 his tumor became aggressive, and the doctors said it was mortal. By December that year, he was gone, just four months before our youngest child was born.
During his illness, Tony and I stuck to hope. Our song was “You and Me” by Dave Matthews Band, and its words carried us through the darkest days. As a teacher, Tony was loved by so many, and our community surrounded us with incredible support. We believed we could get through anything together. But after his death, hearing those lyrics became painful, like a painful reminder that I was now facing life alone.
The hardest part came as I prepared to give birth to our seventh child without him. I prayed for strength, for some sign that Tony would still be with me. When the day finally arrived, my parents walked me into the hospital, balance me with their arms. Hours later, when my son Caleb was placed on my chest, he looked directly into my eyes and held my stare. In that moment, I felt peace for the first time since Tony’s death. It was as if Tony was with us, and God was repeating me I wasn’t alone. Caleb was a miracle, and through him I felt purpose return.
Life after Tony wasn’t easy, but my children gave me strength. Each of them became a reason to get up each morning, and caring for them brought me joy. Slowly, I learned to release the anger and the unpleasantness I carried, and in letting go, I felt Tony’s love guiding me. It was like he was urging me to live fully again.
About a year later, some widowed friends invited me to a singles event. At first, I refused. The thought of meeting another man felt impossible, I still caught myself half-believing Tony might walk back through the door. But my friends kept hopeful me, and finally I joined them. Meeting other widowed and single parents who truly understood helped me feel less alone.
Then one day, I received a message from a man named Spencer. He had recently lost his wife suddenly and was raising four young children. We were part of the same online support group, and he reached out looking for connection. What began as friendly conversation rapidly turned into something deep. We laughed, cried, and leaned on each other through late-night talks. Even before meeting in person, I felt like we had known each other forever.
When Spencer visited Utah with his kids for a conference, we finally met face to face. Our first date was simple, a dinner and a short hike but it confirmed the bond we had already built. Our kids met soon after, and within minutes they were running around together like old friends. Watching Spencer play with my children made me see the kind of father and man he was. Slowly, my heart began to open again.
At first, I resisted taking our friendship further. I was afraid of losing him if things didn’t work out, and the distance between Utah and Virginia made me hesitant. But after Spencer moved to Utah for work, our families spent more time together. One day, as I watched him laughing with my kids at the park, it hit me, I loved him. The peace I once felt when I knew I would marry Tony returned, and I realized God was guiding me once again.
When we finally joined our lives in marriage, our 11 children filled the welcome with laughter, dancing, and joy. It was the start of a new chapter, one filled with healing and love. Three years later, our family is stronger than ever.
I never stopped loving Tony, and I never will. But I’ve learned that love doesn’t divide it multiplies. God expanded my heart in ways I never imagined likely, giving me the ability to love both Tony and Spencer fully. From sorrow to new early stages, my story is proof that broken hearts can heal, grow, and even develop again.
