Part 1The Rebirth After My Husband's Suicide for His First Love

My husband’s death was ruled an accidental drowning.

As I was sorting through his belongings, a copy of a property deed fell out from between the pages of a journal.

When I pushed open the door to that house, I froze.

The interior was cozy and romantic. The expensive furniture, plush carpets, and crystal chandelier glittered even under a layer of dust, unable to hide their opulence. Compared to our cramped, rundown apartment, it was another world.

Hanging on the wall was a happy family portrait: him, his first love, and a pair of twin children.

On the desk lay a suicide note in a messy scrawl: [Julianna, after you left, every day has been a living hell, an agony I can't bear. Now that Mom is gone and the children are grown, I have nothing left to tie me to this world. I'm coming to find you, to continue our love story on the other side!]

My legs gave out from under me. I practically had to crawl my way out of that room.

In that moment, all I wanted to do was dig up his grave.

But the rage and grief overwhelmed me. A sweet, metallic taste filled my throat, and after spitting out a mouthful of blood, my world went black.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the tenth year of our marriage.

* * *

When the police called to inform me that my husband Eddy’s body had been found in the West Hill Reservoir, I was still at the office, burning the midnight oil to deal with a client’s last-minute design changes.

Over forty, hormones a mess, and still slaving away like a workhorse after 10 p.m. My resentment was already at an all-time high.

So when I heard the news, my first thought was that it was a scam.

“Go to hell,” I snarled into the phone. “I hope all you scammers die.”

The officer on the other end didn't get angry.

In a calm, professional voice, he rattled off his badge number and the station’s address. He explained that some night fishermen had found my husband’s body and that his ID was in his wallet. He asked me to come to the scene as soon as possible.

Half-believing, I hung up.

On the drive to the reservoir, I tried calling Eddy over and over, but his phone went straight to voicemail.

Forty minutes later, I arrived at the location the police had given me.

The night was pitch black.

The sound of the reservoir’s current and the cries of unseen animals were bone-chilling.

I stumbled through the uneven terrain, my feet sinking into the soft earth, running towards the only cluster of light in the darkness.

And there, I saw him. A man, lying stiff and straight on the riverbank.

He was wearing the white shirt and black trousers he always wore, now stained with mud and grime. His shoes were gone, his bare feet crisscrossed with cuts.

Blood trickled from his nose and mouth.

When I saw his face, I froze, as if struck by lightning.

It really was him. My husband, Eddy.