My wife died in our Manhattan home. Moving out felt like losing her again.

My wife of 26 years died on April 3, 2021, in our home on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

With my arms wrapped around her and my head lying on her chest, listening to her heart take its last beat, I could feel my heart stop at the same time.

I have no recollection of the immediate days following her death.

I know my sister took me to her house, and I am pretty sure she fed me, but I cannot tell you what I did, who I spoke with, or even whether I slept.

The first real memory I have is of returning to our home a few days later.

I walked through the door, and the silence overcame me.

I sat down on the floor, barely passing through the entryway, and cried.

The warmth and comfort I had felt for 15 years every time I walked through the door was gone.

In its place was a cold, jarringly quiet place filled only with the memories of Lori’s last days.

I am not sure how long I sat there, but I do recall that a neighbor at some point put their hand on my shoulder, asked if I needed anything, and then quietly closed the door.

It was then that I realized I no longer had a home.

Rather, I asked friends and family if I could just stay with them for a couple of days.

I promised not to be in the way or even to need anything.

To be honest, I did not want to interact with anyone and was just hoping to be left alone.

But being alone in Lori’s and my apartment was exponentially worse than being left alone in someone else’s home.

I could feel the warmth and comfort walking into someone else’s home, but not my own.

I was tethered to the life it held, mine, hers, ours.

We moved into the apartment in 2005, shortly after Lori’s second recurrence of her brain tumor.

A prisoner’s dilemma choice we made after her initial diagnosis, when faced with the decision to start treatment immediately and hope she survived, or take the time needed to harvest her eggs, knowing the tumor would likely advance to a stage beyond treatment.

We built our lives in that apartment.

While weathering four brain surgeries, endless treatments, and watching our friends grow their families while we could not do the same, Lori and I found peace and happiness within the four walls of our home.

The smells of molasses cookies baking in the oven, the creaking of the wooden floors.

Lori looking up at me from behind her needlepoint and jokingly calling me slack-jaw Johnny because I watched way too much TV.

We had sex in every room, ate on the floor, and our door was always open to friends and family.

Everyone knew you didn’t need an invite.

Just pop in, and there would always be drinks, food, and of course, homemade cookies.

We lived our best and worst days in that apartment, and along the way our souls seeped into the floorboard, the walls, even the air.

It was more than our home; it was the place where the stress of the day washed off you as soon as you crossed the threshold.

Every corner had a memory, and if I ever felt lost, even for a moment, stepping inside grounded me.

When Lori died, I couldn’t move out.

But ultimately, I became paralyzed with fear, guilt, and worry.

The memories of our life together were alive and well in that apartment.

As much as I didn’t want to be there, it was the only place I felt safe.

It was what I knew, and when the rest of my world had just been ripped apart, the apartment was the only place that felt stable.

A small, undefinable, but incredibly strong tether to my old life.

It didn’t help that, throughout the apartment, Lori had stashed random notes, diaries, and travelogues in every nook and cranny, just waiting to be found.

Like a squirrel hiding acorns for the future.

She would forgetfully stash Hershey kisses in every pocket of every jacket she owned, and when they would suddenly appear in her hand, she would say out loud, “Thank you, future Lori!” Every day after she died was like a treasure hunt.

Moving out would risk missing or, even worse, accidentally throwing out one of these hidden treasures and losing it forever.

Other than Lori’s and my birthday and the day she died, I lost all track of time.

Tethered to a life that no longer existed and a timeline that had ended, but unwilling to start a new one.

And then, one day, my sister said, “Johnny, you can’t move forward if you won’t let go.” At first, I didn’t understand.

Did she mean I need to move forward, knowing it will not be as good as when I was with Lori?

She said no, but rather that I had another chance to live life.

So I decided to speak to a real estate broker, just to see how it felt.

Before I knew it, I had signed a contract.

My broker said I needed to declutter the apartment and stage it.

I had no idea what that actually meant until I walked through the apartment door after that work was done.

To be more precise, none of the furniture, books, pictures, drawings, and knickknacks that made the apartment our home were left.

Every single item that triggered a memory was gone.

In place of my memories was an apartment designed to be photographed, but not lived in.

I called up my broker and screamed, cried, ranted, and ultimately just collapsed on the bed.

It took six months to find a new place.

I must have looked at over 70 apartments.

Making an excuse each time as to why it wasn’t right.

Along the way, I became incredibly close friends with my broker, who I think, in many respects, understood me better than some of my best friends.

I walked into a pre-war apartment with 12-foot ceilings, a wood-burning fireplace, wood floors, and 100-year-old black wrought iron windows.

It had pocket doors, a marble-countered kitchen and bathrooms, a beautiful garden in the back, and was quiet.

When I stepped inside, I felt at peace.

The first time I had felt that way in over four years.

I guess my face gave it away because my broker said, “This is it.

I can’t wait to see what happens in your new life.” And to my surprise, neither could I.