WHEN THE RAIN STOPS FALLING.

“I never imagined the world could stop turning. Until it did.” The morning my life fell apart was oddly beautiful. The sky was brushed with a gentle hue of gold, birds chattered like gossiping old women, and the smell of rain lingered from the night before. I remember humming while making breakfast, flipping pancakes with one hand while cradling my daughter, Oyinye, with the other. She was only nine months old, teething and clingy, but her tiny grip gave me a strange kind of peace. Then the phone rang I didn’t answer right away. I was mid-pour, hot batter sizzling in the pan, and Ada was fussing. But something about the second ring made me pause. A gut feeling—cold, hard, and immediate. I wiped my hands on the nearest towel, pressed the phone to my ear, and braced myself without even knowing why. Hello?” The voice on the other end was unfamiliar, formal, careful. He said the words slowly, like unwrapping a gift he didn’t want to give. “Mrs. Amaka Okechukwu… I’m sorry. There’s been an accident.” I don’t remember much after that. I know I dropped the phone. I know Oyinye started crying. I know the pancakes burned. And I know that by noon, I was a widow. ⸻ They say grief comes in waves, but for me, it came like a flood—with no warning, no mercy. People came and went, their words sounding like echoes in a tunnel. “He was a good man.” “You’re so strong.” “God gives his hardest battles…” I hated every one of them. Strength? There was no strength in getting out of bed. No bravery in brushing my teeth or feeding my child when my insides felt hollow. My husband, Chidi, had been my compass, my calm in chaos. And now, I was expected to carry on? Alone? I stared at his empty side of the bed every night, hoping it was just a bad dream. That maybe he’d walk in, tie loose around his neck, laughing about a meeting that ran too long. But morning always came. And with it, the truth. Two months later, the bills started piling up. Chidi’s death had been sudden, and while we weren’t poor, we weren’t prepared either. His office sent condolences and a modest payout. It was gone in three weeks—hospital fees, funeral, rent, baby formula. I sold his car. Then my jewelry. I even considered selling our wedding rings. I couldn’t do it. At night, I’d watch Oyinye sleep and wonder how I was going to raise her, how I was going to be everything she needed when I could barely breathe. But somehow, I always woke up. I always tried. For her. For me. Because if grief had taught me anything, it was this: Life doesn’t wait for you to be ready. It just keeps going.