It’s been 23 years since my wife, Anna, was taken from me in that tragic plane crash, but it feels like it was just yesterday. The pain hasn’t dulled; it hasn’t softened with time. In fact, it feels sharper now, as if the years have only amplified the longing for what was lost. We were together for ten years before the accident—ten years of laughter, love, and dreams of a future that was tragically cut short.
The last time I saw Anna was the morning of the flight. We were at the airport, standing in the terminal, as she prepared to board her flight to a business conference. I remember how she kissed me goodbye, brushing my cheek with her lips, and telling me she’d be back before I knew it. I was so proud of her—she had worked so hard to get to that point in her career, and the conference was a big deal for her. As we parted ways that morning, I had no idea it would be the last time I’d ever see her alive.
The plane she was on crashed shortly after takeoff, and in an instant, everything changed. I couldn’t comprehend it at first. I kept waiting for the call that it was a mistake, that somehow, she was okay. But that call never came. The grief that followed was suffocating, and I struggled to navigate a world without her. She had been my everything, my partner, my best friend. How was I supposed to move on without her?
The years that followed were filled with pain, but also with moments where I tried to honor her memory. I took on the roles she had once filled, trying to keep her presence alive in our home. But there was a hole in my heart that no amount of time or distraction could fill. There were so many things I wished I could have said to her, moments I wished I had appreciated more fully.
In all these years, I never imagined that I would be faced with the reality that she might not have been entirely gone. That’s where the story gets complicated. Just a few weeks ago, I got a letter—a letter from someone who said they had information about Anna’s death. I almost didn’t open it. But curiosity got the better of me, and I tore open the envelope.
Inside, I found a set of documents and a message that shook me to my core. According to these papers, Anna had somehow survived the crash. The details were unclear, but there was evidence that she had been alive for days after the crash, though unconscious and severely injured. A witness claimed to have seen her being rescued by a team of medics, but somehow, the hospital had never received her.
For 23 years, I had believed my wife was gone, and yet it turns out that wasn’t the case. The thought that she may have fought to survive, that she could have been out there somewhere, is a pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt. It’s a cruel twist of fate—the realization that our last meeting, our last goodbye, was not truly the end.
I don’t know what to do with this new information. I don’t know how to process it. But I do know one thing: if I had only known that morning would be the last time I saw her, I would have held her tighter, I would have said more. And I would have told her that I loved her—again and again—until there was no doubt in either of our hearts.
