My wife passed away six months ago after a sudden heart attack. She was fifty-one years old, healthy, vibrant, and the center of my universe. One morning she was making coffee. By noon she was gone. There were no warning signs. No time to prepare. No chance to say the things I always assumed I would have time to say. The doctors told me it was a massive cardiac event — rare in women her age, but not unheard of. That medical explanation does nothing to fill the silence in our house. I still set two coffee cups on the counter every morning before I catch myself. I still roll over in bed reaching for her. I still hear her laugh in crowded rooms and turn expecting to see her face. Our adult children are grieving too, each in their own way. Our son has become withdrawn. Our daughter calls me every night, and I can hear her trying to be strong for me while falling apart herself. We are all stumbling through this fog, bumping into each other's pain. I am not asking why — I have learned that question has no satisfying answer. I am asking for prayers for the strength to keep living in a world that no longer includes her. For the ability to find joy again without feeling guilty. For my children as they grieve the loss of their mother. And for the hope that love somehow persists beyond death.