Not flashy.
Not dramatic.
Just present.
He knew bedtime routines.
He knew which daughter preferred which cereal.
He knew the difference between their laughs even from another room.
He showed up.
And for five years, we had a happy, functioning family.
Then one Tuesday morning in March, Emily complained of a headache.
Nothing about that morning felt important.
That is something nobody warns you about.
The worst days of your life rarely look different when they begin.
There was no ominous weather.
No strange feeling.
No warning.
Just breakfast.
Lunch boxes.
The twins arguing about who should sit in the front seat even though they were five years old and neither of them was allowed to.
Emily said her head hurt.
I gave her children’s medicine.
Then I sent both girls to school.
At 11:30, the school called.
Emily had collapsed in class.
The hours after that exist in my memory only as fragments.
