Jiya
“Would you like to know what Emma did today?” I asked, stroking the gravestone, my fingers tracing the cool, unyielding marble as if I could somehow coax life back into it.
“She drank bathwater and said it wasn’t tasty.
” I let out a soft giggle, the sound reverberating against the silence that surrounded me.
Visiting my husband’s grave had become part of my daily rhythm, as natural and necessary as breathing.
Milo and Oreo came with me every single time, trotting quietly beside me.
Milo would walk straight to Cole’s grave and rest his head gently against the tombstone, just as he used to rest it on Cole’s knee when he was alive.
Oreo usually settled close to my feet the moment we arrived, keeping watch over me.
I would sit down and talk to him as though he were simply resting nearby.
I told him about the children, about the restaurant, about the tiny victories and exhausting setbacks that filled my days.
It hurt to know he lay beneath the cold earth below me, unreachable, yet coming here and speaking to him preserved our connection—the invisible cord that still bound my heart to his.
Every two weeks, I placed fresh flowers on the graves—three bouquets carefully arranged for the people who had shaped my life in ways words could never fully capture.
Cole.
Eva.
Chloe.
A family bound by love and loss, resting side by side beneath the open sky.
It was August, three months after Cole had passed away. Three months that felt like both a lifetime and a blink of an eye.
Reminders of him clung to my world everywhere—pictures stored on my phone, his clothes still hanging neatly in our closet, the faint scent of his aftershave still lingering in the bathroom no matter how many times I cleaned.
“Today is the big day,” I said, tracing the outline of his name carved into the white marble headstone.
The letters felt sacred beneath my fingertips, each groove a testament to the man I loved.
“The charity event for your gallery, your work, your pictures.” I swallowed against the ache rising inside me.
“I can’t wait to see it. I’m so proud of you, and so are Lucas and Emma.
Take care, sweetheart. I’ll see you tomorrow. ”
I leaned forward and pressed my lips gently against the cold stone, pretending it was his cheek, pretending he could feel me.
Then I adjusted the T-shirt I was wearing—his T-shirt, soft and worn, still carrying the memory of him.
Wrapping myself in it felt like borrowing his strength for a little while.
With a final glance at the grave, I turned and walked out of the cemetery towards the car, carrying both love and grief inside me like two halves of the same heartbeat.
“Didi, are you ready to go?” Geeta asked an hour later as she stepped into my bedroom.
Geeta had been my strength and comfort after Cole’s passing, standing beside me when the world felt as though it had cracked open beneath my feet.
I nodded and turned my gaze toward the window again, staring out at the quiet street. Wearing a knee-length black dress with minimal makeup, I walked downstairs and saw my children waiting for me.
Lucas, who was ten years old, looked handsome in his new midnight-blue suit and striped bowtie, standing tall with a seriousness that reminded me so much of Cole. Emma, who was two and a half, looked adorable in her yellow dress, her tiny shoes tapping softly against the floor as she bounced.
Huddling into the car with the children and Geeta, I drove over to the gallery. The short distance had my nerves fluttering like restless birds inside my chest.
Today mattered.
Today was about honouring Cole, about showing the world the legacy he had left behind.
Arriving at the gallery, I noticed the black car again.
My eyes narrowed as I slowed the vehicle. I couldn’t see if anyone was inside, but the hair lifted again on the back of my neck. I had seen that car practically every week—sometimes near the house, sometimes parked close to the restaurant.
Biting the inside of my lip, I stepped out of the car and saw Jack and Maureen walking toward me, their familiar faces bringing a sense of comfort and calm.
“How are you doing, dear?” Maureen asked.
She and Jack were like the parents I never had, stepping into my life at a time when I needed guidance, patience, and unconditional love.
They had taken care of me from the time we’d met, offering support without hesitation. My children adored them, calling them Nana and Pappy with a natural affection that filled my heart with gratitude.
“I’m good. Taking it a day at a time,” I replied, forcing a small smile. Each day felt like walking across a bridge, unsure whether the ground beneath me would hold, but I kept moving forward because my children needed me to.
“I can’t believe Cole planned the whole thing,” Jack said, blinking rapidly and then staring at the gallery.
I smiled, remembering Cole’s voice and how his shoulders pushed back when he’d told me, “The show must still go on, no matter what.”
Entering the gallery with all of them, I saw servers moving gracefully through the room, carrying trays of champagne and canapés for the guests who had already arrived.
The space buzzed with chatter, laughter and wide grins, a celebration built from Cole’s passion and vision.
Liam, Cole’s brother, and his family arrived shortly afterward.
“Hi, sorry we’re late,” he said, offering me an apologetic smile as they stepped inside.
“You’re just in time,” I replied, greeting them with a hug. “Traffic wasn’t too bad, I hope?”
“Not terrible,” Liam said with a chuckle. “The kids were just excited to get here. They’ve been talking about this all week.”
“That’s because your brother is the star of the night,” I teased lightly. “Come in, make yourselves comfortable. There’s plenty of food and drinks circulating.”
After a few more minutes of easy conversation, I stepped away and walked slowly through the gallery.
I took a breath, closing my eyes briefly before opening them again, allowing myself to fully absorb the scene before me—people moving from photograph to photograph, studying Cole’s work, leaning forward, raising their eyebrows, and offering compliments.
This was his dream.
And I was standing inside it.
I sipped my champagne as Andrea, Cole’s receptionist, stepped forward and made an announcement.
There were at least eighty people present in the gallery, their conversations blending into a low hum that filled the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Cole’s gallery.
Thank you all for coming down here today.
Cole Harris is no longer with us,” she paused, her eyes glistening.
“However, he still wanted this event to go on. All the proceeds from the work you hopefully purchase will go to charity.” She cleared her throat.
“Please enjoy the selection and the snacks.”
The guests dispersed in different directions, moving from display to display.
Holding Lucas’s small hand, I walked slowly through the gallery, pausing at each picture.
I studied every photograph, wondering what Cole had been thinking when he captured those moments—what had caught his eye, what had stirred his heart, what had made him press the shutter at that exact second.
The gallery was divided into sections. There were pictures of nature, of people in town, of women standing proudly in powerful roles, and of family—Liam, Jack, Maureen.
A mixture of black-and-white and coloured photographs lined the walls, illuminated by soft yellow lights from the ceiling. A smaller section displayed his abstract paintings, bold strokes of colour that reflected the depth of his imagination.
Turning the corner and reaching the end of the display, I heard Lucas gasp.
“Mama,” he shouted. “That’s you!”
“You… you… Mama,” Emma repeated.
I followed their gaze, and my breath caught in my throat.
Staring back at me was a painting of myself created by Cole, alive with vibrant colours. He had captured a moment of me looking at him, my face turned slightly, my expression soft and full of love. Around it were photographs of the children and me that he had taken over the years.
At the top of the piece, written in bold red acrylic letters, were the words:
To My Love, My Life… My Wife!
Tears burned behind my eyes.
My gaze continued moving across the display.
There were photographs of Lucas laughing, Emma asleep on Cole’s chest, camping trips, family dinners, and countless moments from the life we had built together.
Then my eyes landed on a photograph that made me stop walking.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was me.
I stared at it, unable to move.
I was asleep beneath the blankets, my dark hair spread across the pillow while the soft glow of a bedside lamp illuminated the room. Everything around me was shadowed and quiet.
My stomach tightened instantly.
I knew exactly when the photograph had been taken.
It was the night we had spent together for the first time.
The night everything between us had changed.
For a moment, I could barely breathe.
My eyes drifted to the photograph beside it, and my heart shattered.
It was the same room and the same bed, but this photograph had been taken from the opposite side. The space where I had been lying was empty.
Beneath the photographs were two small plaques.
The Night Everything Changed.
The Morning Everything Did.
My vision blurred as I stepped closer.
I stared at the photographs for several seconds, my chest aching as memories rushed through me.
I remembered waking in the middle of the night, slipping quietly from the bed while Cole slept, gathering my clothes and leaving before dawn because I had been terrified by how quickly my feelings for him had begun to grow.
Now, looking at those photographs, I wondered what that morning had felt like for him.
“Jiya?”
I turned and found Marjorie standing beside me.
Her eyes softened as she glanced toward the photographs.
“He left something for you.”
I frowned.
“What?”