In Life and In Death

“I was born to love. So why can’t I?” That question haunted me in life, but not now, 226 days after I died. Sunlight streams through the kitchen window, casting golden rays across the room. The familiar sounds of my two children playing fill the background. It’s a picture-perfect July morning, the kind you see in parenting magazines. But my world has shifted. This realm is no longer the only one I know. Death renewed an ancient connection to something beyond…this. I gaze at my girls, their love an invisible, indestructible thread binding us together from this life to the next.

A knock from the front door breaks my musing. “That’s unusual,” I think.

My husband heads toward the door. I shift myself there immediately. Shifting is one of the perks of being dead. I just think of where I want to be, and I’m there. It feels mundane now, like walking, but it’s certainly convenient.

“You’re kidding me,” I shout, shocked as I register who’s at the door. Though I’ve tried talking to my husband many times, he rarely reacts. But this time, his footsteps falter at my words. “Just wait, babe,” I add, quieter now, not wanting to spook him further.

My first husband is standing outside. I’m now about five inches from his face, studying him. He’s barely aged—just a few extra crinkles and pounds. He looks fitter than I had stayed in life, likely a job requirement if he’s still serving in the Army. His hair has the same close military cut, and his hands twitch nervously with a white envelope—no wedding ring.

I remember hearing he remarried and had several kids. I’d thought about visiting him a couple of times in these past 226 days but always stopped myself. It felt like a betrayal, even in death. There’s a misconception that death erases all negative emotions. It doesn’t. They’re dulled, sure, but still present. Love becomes your core vibration—the “tune” you hum—but awareness remains. And I was aware he’d left me for someone else, who later left him. The karmic bow on that story allowed me to move on in life and in death.

Seeing him now, I feel the waves of his nervous energy. Another “ghost” perk: emotions are palpable, vibrating from people like unique compositions. Some are sharp and staccato; others are legato, flowing and continuous. My first husband radiates a jagged, anxious melody.

My husband, Noah, reaches the door. His t-shirt is wrinkled, and the dark circles under his light blue eyes hint at his sleepless nights. Despite the stress of the year, he still radiates like the steady hum of the earth itself, calm and capable, like birds singing in the morning as they prepare for the day. Aware of the hard work ahead but true to their nature, singing as they steadily prepare for it. I’ve always loved that sturdiness about him.

Noah opens the door, his expression neutral. Owen looks shocked and shifts his weight toward the street as if debating whether to flee.

“I’m sorry,” Owen says. “I heard this was a one-parent home. I was looking for someone else.”

“Who?” Noah’s voice is stern, and recognition flickers across his face. It doesn’t surprise me that it took him a moment. I destroyed all the physical evidence of my first marriage, but social media has a funny way of not letting people go unnoticed.

“No one,” Owen mutters, turning to leave.

“Maggie?” Noah says, his voice cracking.

Noah’s sadness radiates deep and raw as a wave of protectiveness surges in me. I reach out, placing my hand on his chest. I like to think it soothes him, and he takes a ragged breath.

“Maggie is not home,” Noah says firmly. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Owen pauses, hesitantly saying, “Well, it’s personal. I know it’s a little too late, but I wanted to give her…” He lifts the envelope slightly, still facing away.

Noah steps forward and snatches the letter.

“A little too late?” I think, “Ooo, buddy, you have no idea!” laughing silently at my little inside joke.

Noah quickly slams our heavy white door, locking it. I smile, always admiring his agility.

Owen shouts through the door, “It’s really for her! Are you her husband?”

Noah ignores him, turning the envelope over in his hands. His usual calm is replaced by an urgency I rarely see. He seems desperate to hold onto something new, something tangible that might have an undiscovered piece of me.

He opens the envelope, revealing a typed letter, and I read over his shoulder.

“Dear Maggie,

I never treated you like I should have, and I need to say I’m sorry. Something you said the day you signed our divorce papers keeps running through my head: “You never think about the end when you fall in love with someone. That one day, they will so willingly break your heart that you once so willingly gave them.”

You didn’t deserve what I did to you. I’m so sorry it’s taken this long to say it. I’m really, really sorry. You were always so kind, creative, loving, and strong. You never took “no” for an answer when you wanted it to be “yes.” Even when it came to my dad.

You spent so many late nights convincing me to reconnect with him. Without you, I wouldn’t have had a relationship with him. And I never even said thank you.

I know you always hated apologies—another famous Maggie quote: “Don’t say better, do better!” So don’t worry; this letter is more than just an apology; it’s a thank you letter as well. Without you, I never would have had a relationship with my dad...

Dad passed away in January from ALS. In his life, he became not only the dad I wanted but the grandpa I needed for my kids. You gave me that. You gave them that. I hope this letter becomes more than an apology. I hope it’s a thank you.

You always have a special place in my heart.

Love, Owen”

I study Noah. His eyes are fixed on a sentence in the middle of the letter. I attempt to decipher which one when he folds the paper and walks to the door.

He opens it and pulls Owen into a hug.

“She was a force of nature, huh?” Noah says, his voice breaking.

Owen stiffens, then nods, returning the embrace. “She really was.”

Noah invites him in, and they sit, sharing stories about “their Maggie,” about each other, about life, and what it means to love and be loved.

My question, “So why can’t I?” was a lie I had created from life’s collective mini-traumas. The truth was right in front of me; I had loved these men. They had loved me. And that’s all I ever really wanted in life, was to love and be loved.