My dead wife standing in front of me having a conversation with me was all the proof I needed. Despite knowing the harsh truth—that she wasn’t truly there, that she was nothing more than a figment of my imagination—my heart still pounded in my chest at the sight of her. Who cared if she wasn’t real? I could see her. I could talk to her. I didn’t care that she was clearly a hallucination from my crazy, deranged mind. Seeing her, delusion or not, was better than not seeing her at all. I would happily take any moment in her presence, even if it meant I had to give myself a concussion every time
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