“She looks pretty good for a dead woman,” I said.

My voice didn’t even shake. I just sat there, watching him.

Mark had his fork halfway to his mouth. He stopped. His hand began to tremble, just a little bit, before the fork slipped from his fingers and hit the stoneware plate with a sharp clatter.

He didn’t look at the phone at first. He just stared at me, his eyes wide and completely empty of any explanation.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a dry, dusty sound.

I didn’t answer. I just tapped the screen of my phone to keep it from going dark.

On the screen was a Facebook profile. The name at the top was Lisa Parker.

Her profile picture was a high-resolution photo taken at Grand Haven beach. It was posted just 3 weeks ago.

In the photo, a woman with bright blonde hair and a wide, dimpled smile was laughing. Her arm was draped over the shoulder of a man wearing a blue polo shirt.

That man was my husband. He was smiling too. It was a real, genuine smile, the kind I hadn’t seen on his face in years.

I need to back up for a second. I need to explain why this moment felt like my entire life was being erased with a dirty sponge.

Mark and I met in 2009. We were both in our late 20s, living in Dayton, Ohio. I was working as a receptionist at a local pediatric clinic, and he was in middle management at a logistics firm.

On our third date, he sat across from me at a quiet diner and told me about Lisa.

He told me she was his college sweetheart. They had planned to spend their lives together. But on November 12, 2006, she was killed in a head-on collision on a rainy highway.

He cried when he told me. I remember my stomach dropping with a deep, heavy sympathy. I thought he was so incredibly vulnerable. I loved him for his capacity to grieve so deeply.

Every year on November 12, the routine was the same.

Mark would get a heavy, dark blue vanilla candle from the kitchen cabinet. He would light it on the counter, stare at the flame, and go completely silent.

He wouldn’t eat. He wouldn’t watch television. He would just sit in the living room, staring at a small silver locket he kept in a blue ceramic bowl on his dresser.

I never pushed him. I never got jealous. Instead, I held his hand. I made him hot tea. I told him it was okay to still love her.