When my husband died, I thought grief would be the hardest thing I would ever have to endure. I was wrong. A few days after the funeral, when our son said he couldn’t sleep in his bed, I realized how much I hadn’t really understood in my life.
Daniel and I had been married for sixteen years before cancer took him.
We had six children: Caleb, ten years old; Emma, eight years old; twins Lily and Nora, six years old; Jacob, four years old; and little Sophie, who had just turned two when he died.
Before the diagnosis, our lives were wonderfully ordinary.
Saturday mornings were for pancakes and cartoons. Daniel always flipped the pancakes too early, and Caleb would tease him, “Dad, you never wait long enough!”
Daniel smiled and said, “Patience is overrated.”
I pretended to be annoyed, but I admired his dependability. He paid the bills on time, fixed broken hinges, and remembered all the birthdays. He was a devoted husband and a wonderful father.
