My wife's father died last week - suddenly, but as far as we know, peacefully in his sleep. He was only fifty-eight years old.
Sometimes she cries, but mostly she plods along as if it hasn't really happened. That's understandable, I guess. I know this is the most difficult time in her life, and I'm there for her every step of the way, but I was not prepared for how hard it was to be for me. Watching the person you love more than anyone else in the world suffer that loss is more heartbreaking than I can put into words.
It's harder - much harder - than when my own father died three years ago, because at least those feelings I had some control over. This time around, the ball is in her court. I'm only there to wipe the tears away and tell her that one day she will smile again. I can't bring her dad back, but the least I can do is promise her a little happiness somewhere down the line.