He was thirty-seven, funny, stubborn, and certain he would outlive everyone. Cancer took him in nine months.
When my mother invited the children and me to stay with her so I could escape the nightmare, even briefly, I agreed.
Louise had stopped asking when Daddy was coming home.
Louise was eight. Noah was five months old and still turned toward the door whenever he heard a man’s voice.
Louise had stopped asking when Daddy was coming home.
That hurt worse than the questions.
At night, after both children slept, I still reached toward Mark’s side of the bed before remembering. Grief had turned ordinary habits into traps. I packed his blue sweater in my carry-on, though I knew I would not wear it.
On the morning of our flight, she held Noah’s bottle while I checked our documents three times.
