I returned to the highway where my husband died

Dear Delyara, My husband died in a winter collision on Highway 2, and for four years I avoided the entire route. I took longer roads, declined family visits, and experienced panic even as a passenger. Exposure therapy began with maps, then videos, then short drives on nearby highways. Yesterday, with my therapist’s plan, my sister drove behind me while I entered Highway 2 alone. I kept the radio off, named road signs aloud, and stopped at a service area when my hands began to shake. Near the crash location, I felt the old image rise—the police lights, the damaged car, snow turning gray beneath boots. I continued driving. At the next exit, I pulled over and cried until my sister arrived. We drank coffee beside the cars. I had not conquered the road or transformed it into something harmless. I had travelled through the place where the worst news of my life began and reached another location afterward. For years, my memory ended at that stretch of highway. Yesterday, the road continued, and I did too.