I don't have a home.

I did once, but not anymore.

My kids have sold it, and I don't blame them.

I should have been there for them, especially at a time like that.

But they only lost a mother.

I lost a piece of myself.

We spent 40 years together.

She was my first kiss, and we were just 9 years old, tiptoes under mistletoe.

Over a lifetime we built something together, something beautiful, an intricate, and just

for us.

And then she died, and I was left behind.

Afterwards I felt so alone.

Other people's company, even my own children's, felt wrong, hollow, and thin, like cardboard.

No solace.

I'd lost half of myself, and it hurt like hell.

During the funeral, I had to sit there and eat sandwiches my daughter had thrown together

on a platter, listening to sad offerings from people who were aware of the hole in my chest,

but couldn't do anything about it.

And like a black cloud, the thought of my empty home descended upon me.

What was I going to do when everyone went back to their families, when my children finally

returned to their lives?

It was only on the first night after I checked into the Dunn Raven Hotel that I understood

...