My husband, 42, died unexpectedly a month ago. The grief had been paralyzing. Some mornings, I’d wake up and forget he was gone—just for a moment—before the crushing weight of loss set back in. I had barely started sorting through his things, and his phone still sat untouched on the hallway table, occasionally lighting up with news alerts or spam emails. It was strangely comforting—his digital presence still flickering, as though a piece of him lingered.
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