July 24, 1982, was the worst day of my life; the day my husband John died. I grieved terribly for weeks. One morning I was in the back yard crying, and the young neighbour boy, Brian came over to see if I was okay, I looked at him, and he seemed so sweet and innocent. "I am fine, just a bit sad," I said quietly. "I saw the ambulance and police. I am very sorry about your husband," he
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