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I became a widow Widow Repair

My husband was found in the upstairs room of our house, a victim of suicide.

When I got home, the back door was locked. Someone else close to him had arrived before me, and I asked him to get the door open. It was taking so long that I took our baby back to my parents in-laws’ house to wait.

From what I was told, Jason was on his knees, slumped over the bed, face down. As stated in the autopsy report, with “a single, contact, perforating gunshot wound to the head.” He was 23, and our son was almost 3 months old. I became a widow & single mom at the age of 21.


 

This always comes to me in the middle of the night. My breathing is shallow and strained. I’m so tired of waiting for everyone to get back. They won’t answer their phones.

I go back home. I always drive around to the back door, but I tried that earlier, and it was locked even though it’s never locked. No one ever used the front door.

But this time I saw black vans, and I lost the inviting curve of the driveway that used to take me to the back door. Instead, my truck veered off to the left because the front door was open.

Desperation, despair and hopelessness poured out the front door escorted by faceless men in grim uniforms. His family was coming to me with robotic movements and eyes ringed with shock and confusion.

He must be hurt- they need to replace the black vans with an ambulance. Someone made a mistake. The stretcher should not be covered like that.

I just talked to him a little while ago. Was it a few hours? I can’t remember anymore, except that I should have been here when he got home.

His friend came up the driveway looking for him. A man stopped him and spoke to him, and I saw him put his face into his hands and start sobbing.

I saw Jason’s grandfather raise his hands and cry out with shock when he was told.

I’m still parked by the driveway, the door of my truck hanging open. I reach to the backseat and check on my baby son who is sleeping soundly in his car seat.

I’ll never stay here again. I cannot stop seeing them come down the stairs and through the front door.

My heart will not beat normally, and it will not stop reminding me. This is a nightmare. I just want to breathe and wake up from this nightmare.

 

Click here for Part 3 of What Happened.

I Remember Calling Him

I was wearing black capris and a pair of basket-weave heeled sandals. One of the heels had been mauled by our pit bull, but it matched, and I was trying to find a job.

I was standing on the back porch. My friend told me that it was a “dream house.”

I told him I found a job, not at Piggly Wiggly (He didn’t want me to work there). I was going to work as a receptionist at the local vet. It would be wonderful, to be around animals and people that love animals.

He said, “That’s good,” but he sounded weary, and he was coming home to work on the trucks in the yard because, he said, “I just don’t feel good.”

I went to my mother-in-law’s house to pick up my baby son, and my father-in-law offered me some fish sticks for lunch, so I stayed for a little while.

The Locked Door

When I got home, the back door was locked.

We never locked the door.

I didn’t even have a key.

I knocked and knocked, and he didn’t come to the door. He was sick. He must be sleeping. I asked a person on scene to help.

It was cold, and I knew my husband would not want me to keep the baby outside in the cold. It was taking so long, and he wasn’t coming to the door.

My nephew did this a month ago. He locked his door and was sleeping so hard that no one could wake him up by pounding on the door. My husband had to jimmy the door open. It must run in the family. My husband is sleeping so hard right now that he can’t hear pounding on the door. My baby will be cold if I wait here too long.

I went back to my parents-in-laws’ house. They had a key, so they asked me to stay with my grandfather-in-law and left to go open the door. I watched tv, rocking my son.

My cousin called. I don’t remember what we talked about. Someone else called while I was talking to her, but it was an old cell phone. I’ll never know who that was.

I started calling my husband and my parents-in-law. No one answered.

Finally I asked my grandfather-in-law if he would be okay if I ran to the house. He assured me he would be okay.

Heartbreak Behind the Locked Door

I will never forget the locked door. Even now, years later, I sometimes shudder when I get home and have to unlock my door.

A locked door should be a symbol of safety, but I remember heartbreak behind it.

Click here for Part 2 of What Happened.