My Husband Told Me Never to Touch the Old Radio in Our Attic – A Week After He Died, I Found Out Why
After my husband Andrew’s death, I, Grace, 76, faced a heavy silence in our Pennsylvania home. Married 56 years, we shared a quiet life of routines—meatloaf Tuesdays, Jeopardy nights, and Andrew’s beloved HAM radio, a mysterious relic he kept dust-free in the attic. Three weeks after his funeral, sleepless at 3 a.m., I ventured upstairs, drawn to his radio. It was on, lights blinking, headphones warm. A stranger’s voice mentioned Andrew,
hinting at secrets and betrayal, shaking me. I responded, demanding answers, only to learn it was a mix-up—Richard, a retired firefighter, meant his nephew, another Andrew. Relieved, we talked for hours about loss—his wife to cancer, my Andrew recently gone. The radio, once Andrew’s enigma, became my lifeline. Weekly, I
connect with Richard, sharing stories of movies, memories, and grief. The loneliness lingers—Andrew’s absence stings in empty coffee cups—but the attic, now alive with our talks, offers comfort. I keep the radio clean, as Andrew did, and each week, I call, “Richard, do you copy?” He always answers, “Loud and clear, my friend.” From a machine I never understood, I found an unexpected friend, easing the silence of my grief.
