I decided to sell my wife’s car five months after she passed. But when I opened the glovebox to clean it… I found a secret that took my breath away…

Our hearts were in it, but our paths kept missing each other. Eventually, the conversations just stopped happening. Not because we didn’t care, but because it hurt too much to admit we were stuck.

That chapter of our lives left deep marks on both of us. It was like carrying around a weight no one else could see. We smiled for the world, showed up to birthdays, and baby showers, and said we’re doing fine when people asked.

But inside, we were both nursing wounds that time alone wasn’t healing. I guess I’m saying all this because I want you to understand our marriage wasn’t always full of sunshine, but we loved each other through a lot. After Nancy passed, the days that followed felt like a blur.

The house we shared didn’t feel like a home anymore. It felt like a museum of her. Her toothbrush was still in the bathroom cup.

Her favorite sweater was still draped over the couch, where she always curled up to read. Her perfume lingered faintly in a closet. I would walk into the kitchen and see her favorite mug, and it would feel like my chest was being ripped open all over again.

Every corner of that house whispered her name. I thought about moving. A few times, I even opened up the laptop and started browsing apartments in other cities, other neighborhoods, anywhere that might feel like a clean slate.

But it was too much. Too many decisions. Too many unknowns.

Too much fear of leaving behind the last traces of her. Even though being surrounded by her things made me hurt, the thought of not being surrounded by them somehow hurt worse. Three months after she died, I forced myself to start packing her things.

I started with the bedroom, her drawers, her side of the closet, her nightstand. Every item I touched felt like I was peeling away part of her existence. I didn’t throw anything away.

I couldn’t. Instead, I boxed them all up and moved them into the guest room. I told myself I’d figure out what to do with them later.

But deep down, I think I just needed her to still be somewhere in the house. Somewhere I could close the door and pretend she wasn’t completely gone. And when you’re surrounded by the pieces of the person you lost, moving forward feels like a betrayal.

I wasn’t ready to let go. I don’t even think I knew what letting go meant yet. All I knew was that every night I went to bed in that room alone, and it didn’t feel like healing.

It felt like surviving. It took me six full months after Nancy died to finally make the decision to sell her car. Up until then, it had just been sitting in the driveway, untouched.

The tires were starting to flatten a little and dust had gathered on the windshield. That car was a piece of her. Every time I passed by it, I felt like I was walking past her memory.

I would sometimes go out there late at night or early in the morning and just sit inside it. I wouldn’t even start the engine. I’d just sit in her seat, close the door, and breathe.

It still smelled like her. Her lip balm was still in the console. Her sunglasses were in the glove box…