When my husband died, I believed I had already arrived at the hardest place grief could take a person. I thought I understood what the worst of it felt like. The edge where everything breaks and nothing beyond it could possibly hurt more deeply.
I was wrong about that.
Four days after we buried Daniel, our son could not sleep in his own bed. And in the quiet, ordinary way that devastating things sometimes begin, that was the moment everything I thought I knew about my life started to come apart.
Daniel and I had been married for sixteen years when cancer took him. Sixteen years of the kind of routines that feel permanent precisely because they have been repeated so many times they stop feeling like choices and simply become the shape of your days. Saturday mornings meant pancakes and cartoons. He always flipped them too soon, before the bubbles had fully formed across the surface, and our son Caleb would laugh every single time.
“Dad, you never wait long enough.”
Daniel would grin at him without apology.
