The morning after Sherry died, the garden still needed tending. The tomatoes didn’t pause. Her roses still demanded deadheading. The daylilies she’d placed with such care kept opening anyway, indifferent to the fact that she was gone. Rick Stiller stood in the early light — a retired commercial photographer with a gray ponytail and fifty years of Tulsa behind him — and tried to figure out what he was supposed to do with a life that had organized itself entirely around someone else’s survival. For twenty years, Sherry had been sick in the way that remakes a marriage: chronic, undiagnosed, relentless, painful. Rick had stayed through all of it. When she died on July 25, 2020, he felt relief — and then the guilt of that relief. This episode is his story: the caregiving years, the year of fog that followed, the slow emergence into a life defined by writing, photography, gardening, and the quiet discovery that purpose, when you stop forcing it, tends to find you on its own.