A Day in the Life of a Suicide Widow

**Trigger warning. Minor details of a suicide are spoken of in this piece.**

I hate mornings under normal circumstances, but my mornings are pretty much the same as anyone else’s…coffee, kid, dogs, coffee, coffee.

On days I have to work (I only work out of the home part-time), no matter how much time I think I give myself, I am usually running about ten minutes late. I manage to get my lipstick on without it smeared across my teeth, though. Well, most of the time, anyway.

On days that I don’t have to leave the house other than taking my daughter to and from school, I usually get a workout in and then dive into whatever work I’m doing to supplement my now single parent income. I do the vehicle maintenance, make the doctor’s appointments, endeavor (ha) at housework and all the normal ‘hausfrau’ duties.

I honestly lead one of the most boring lives imaginable, and part of me hates that. The other part of me is dead inside anyway, so as long as I have cable, a good book or even my glowing, once phone-like device nearby, I’m good.

Yes, I am only 50% alive.

At least that’s how I feel.

Last winter, on a Sunday afternoon, half of me was tragically killed.
My husband of nearly twelve years walked out to the garage, grabbed the .22 revolver* he had BEGGED me to purchase “for safety” only six weeks prior, sat in the driver’s seat of my car, and swallowed a bullet.