In our little rowhouse in Lawrenceville, Pittsburgh, I, Tom, loved Marie with a fierceness that scared me. At 30, I thought love meant control—schedules, rules, keeping her safe. She was a free spirit, her laugh like the jangle of diner bells, sketching flowers on napkins. But I’d nag: “Don’t stay out late,” “Stop wasting time on art.” I thought I was protecting her. By 2015, her spark dimmed; she’d stare out our window, silent. Depression sank its claws in, and I didn’t see. When she took her life in 2016, swallowing pills while I worked at the steel mill, I shattered. Her note said, “I’m sorry, Tom. I couldn’t breathe.” My strictness had caged her, and the guilt was a blade in my gut.

Lawrenceville kept turning—neighbors swapped stories over Yuengling at the bar, kids played stickball in alleys—but I was stuck. I’d sit in our kitchen, tracing her sketches, replaying every harsh word I’d said. The pain was raw, a scream I couldn’t let out. I drank too much, worked too hard, trying to outrun the regret. By 40, I thought I’d healed. I’d fixed up the house, joined friends for cards, told myself I’d moved on.

Then, in the fall of 2024, my buddy Mike brought his sister, Clara, to a block party. She walked in, and my heart stopped—she was Marie’s mirror: same chestnut curls, same shy smile. My beer slipped, glass shattering on the pavement. Clara’s laugh, soft like Marie’s, sent my head spinning. I mumbled excuses, my hands shaking, and fled home. That night, I saw Marie in every corner—her sketches, her shadow. My sanity frayed; I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think. Was this a ghost, a cruel trick? The pain I’d buried roared back, sharper, mixed with a mad longing to hold her again.

I couldn’t stay. Pittsburgh’s streets, once home, felt like a maze of memories. I packed a bag, quit my job, and drove to a cabin in the Allegheny woods, vowing never to love again. The quiet there was brutal—wind howling, my regret louder. I’d see Clara’s face in the firelight, then Marie’s, their smiles blurring. I’d scream into the dark, begging forgiveness, my mind teetering. Slowly, chopping wood, walking trails, I clawed back some clarity. I’d never be whole, but I could survive.

Marie’s death taught me love isn’t control, but freedom. Clara’s face showed me I’d never escape her ghost. I stay in the woods now, alone, carving small birds from cedar—Marie’s favorite. Belonging isn’t in love anymore; it’s in carrying her memory, flawed and heavy, without breaking.