Grief has a way of rewriting the past in harsh ink. After the loss of someone we love, it is easy to replay every scene, every decision, as if a different choice could have saved them. Survivor’s guilt whispers, “If only I had been more, done more, given more, they would still be here.”

But here is the truth: love is not measured by the outcome. Love is not judged by whether someone was “saved.” Love is the three years of laughter, shared meals, quiet moments, and imperfect but real companionship. It is the presence we gave when we had it to give.

When addiction, illness, or mortality claims a life, it does not mean love failed. It means a human being has reached the end of their road. To carry the weight of responsibility for another person’s survival is to ignore the complexity of disease, biology, and choice. One heart cannot be both partner and cure.

What remains after loss is not a verdict on our worth; it is grief. And grief, as heavy as it is, is evidence of love.

The work of the wounded healer is to sit at the table with both truths:

• I loved as I was able.
• His death was not my failure.

This doesn’t erase the ache. It doesn’t silence the middle-of-the-night voice that says, “Maybe if…” But it does offer a counterweight: “I showed up. I gave what I could. That is what love is.”

And so the table remains set. For grief, for love, for memory, and for healing, again and again.

I would always love you Tony…