Some people’s victory tastes sweet, like freshly picked strawberries after a barren winter. The color is rich, and the juice spills out when you bite into it. You can taste the sunlight in the red and see the ripe in their smile. They are satisfied and they show it.

Others’ victory tastes sour, like lemonade made without sugar. They gulp it down too quickly on a hot summer day, expecting a fresh taste, but it hits them the wrong way. They pucker their lips and squint their eyes, surprised at their victory’s aftertaste.

But for me, well, it’s been two years since I won the fight against my wife, and I can’t get the taste out of my mouth. It clings to my tongue and coats my teeth in a greasy mold. I can’t get it out with a toothbrush. I can’t cough it out. It seeps into every meal, contaminating even the sweetest of foods. I can no longer smile, afraid to show the gunk on my teeth. I don’t have much to smile about anyway.

It took me losing my family to realize how much I love them. To me, victory tastes bitter, like 95% dark chocolate, or fruit that’s gone bad. It’s meant to be sweet, but it’s really just a loss.