Chapter 19: What She’ll Say When He’s Gone

She won’t cry right away.
Not publicly.
Not in front of the kids.

She might even post something vague. A quote. A sunrise. A song that doesn’t say his name, but she’ll know who it was for.

At first, she’ll say:
“He was a good man.”
“He helped me when no one else did.”
“We had history.”

She won’t say love. Not directly. Not at first.
Because love brings questions. Love makes people ask,
“Then why did you leave him alone?”

But later, when no one’s looking…
When the kids are asleep. When the lights are off.
When her phone is silent and she’s scrolling through old messages—
that’s when it’ll hit.

Not like a slap.
Like a tide.
Slow.
Overwhelming.
Inevitable.

She’ll find that one voice note he left.
The one where he was out of breath, but still laughing.
Still calling her “baby.”
Still promising he’d make it back to her.

And that’s when she’ll cry.

She might tell someone — maybe just one person:

“He was the only man who ever saw all of me… and didn’t run.”

She’ll remember the bike he bought.
The Father’s Day cake.
The time he said,
“Don’t worry about the money — just tell me what you need.”

She’ll remember what she tried to forget.
And she’ll feel guilty.
Because he died believing in her.
And at some point… she stopped believing in him.

Not out of cruelty.
Out of fear.
Out of exhaustion.

But it won’t matter.
Because memory isn’t merciful when it returns.
It’s true.

Eventually, she’ll talk to the kids.

“He was a part of your story too.”
“He helped more than you know.”
“You were never a burden to him.”

And maybe, one day, she’ll show them his letters.
Or play the song he sang in Olongapo.
Or open that document he wrote called Kissed the Wrong Frog.

And when they ask,
“Was he really your husband?”

She’ll pause… and say,
“He was more than that.”

Because even if they never said the vows,
never signed the paper,
never got their night…

Josh loved her with a kind of fire that doesn’t go out.
Even in death.