Some mornings, I still wake up and reach across the bed, expecting to feel my wife beside me. For a split second, I forget she’s gone.
Then reality comes crashing back.
Those moments feel like getting punched in the chest.
I never let Jason see that part of me.
The truth is that I’m thirty-six years old and still trying to figure out how to be both a father and a mother to a boy who deserves far more stability than I can sometimes offer.
So we walk.
That Sunday started like any other.
The sky was pale blue, washed out as if someone had diluted the color with water. A few joggers circled the lake in the park near our house, earbuds in and faces focused. Families pushed strollers along the path. Couples walked dogs that strained at their leashes.
Everything felt ordinary.
Until it didn’t.
