learned.
And that was it.
The final moment.
Three days after Emily’s funeral, Carl sat beside me at the kitchen table.
We had barely spoken since the hospital.
We were living in the same house but moving through grief separately.
I assumed that was normal.
Then Carl said,
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore.”
I thought he meant grief.
I thought he meant the pain.
I almost told him I understood.
Then he said he was leaving.
He had already packed.
He apologized.
Then he walked out.
I heard the front door close.
And suddenly, in less than one week, one daughter was dead and my husband was gone.
Lily was asleep down the hall.
She was five.
I sat at that kitchen table for hours.
I truly did not know how I was going to survive.
There were weeks afterward when getting out of bed felt almost impossible.
