A year after my husband died, I found a Twitter account he’d never told me about. On it were anniversary letters he’d written every year—funny memories, little quirks he loved about me, things he never said out loud. I laughed and cried reading them, especially the post he wrote from the hospital thanking me for holding his hand.
Then I found one written months before he got sick:
“If she’s reading this, I’m probably gone. I want her to know I noticed everything. Don’t cry too long. Smile. Love again. And please don’t forget your keys.”
I broke down.
I printed all his posts and made a scrapbook. Then I created my own account, “Letters To Him,” and wrote one message back. It went viral, and people all over the world shared their own stories of loss.
A coworker of his reached out and told me about a GoFundMe he’d secretly started years earlier called “For Her, If I’m Gone.” He’d saved almost $25,000 for me to “breathe, travel, and live.”
Instead of a trip, I used some of it to host a community dinner in his honor. It grew into a regular event where people shared memories of their loved ones. I volunteered more. Made friends. Began to feel less alone.
Eventually I met someone kind—Adrian. Not a replacement, just someone willing to walk beside me. When my old blue robe finally fell apart, he bought me a new one. I cried.
Through his tweets, his planning, his quiet love, my husband showed me something lasting:
Love doesn’t disappear. It leaves echoes.
So I keep writing—because love, even after loss, keeps going.
