A year after my husband passed, I found his secret Twitter account. Every anniversary, he’d posted letters about us—memories, jokes, little things I’d forgotten. One post, from months before he died, said:
“If I’m gone, please know I noticed everything. Smile for me. Love again.”
I cried, laughed, and created a scrapbook of all his posts. Inspired, I started my own Twitter, “Letters To Him,” sharing what I found. People connected, sharing their own stories of love and loss.
Then I discovered a GoFundMe he’d quietly set up for me before he died—$24,800 to live fully, to breathe, to honor life. I used it to host community dinners for widows, elders, and lonely neighbors.
One recipient, helped years ago by my husband, wanted to give back and donated to keep the dinners going. His kindness kept rippling outward.
And slowly, I opened my heart again. A friend, Adrian, started visiting. Thoughtful, kind, never trying to replace him—but walking beside me in life.
Love doesn’t die. It lingers—in tweets, in dinners, in quiet gestures, in blue robes. My husband loved me then, and still does, through every ripple of kindness he left behind.
If this moved you, write someone a letter. Hide it. One day, it might change everything.
