back when he owned one brown jacket and insisted it brought him good luck.
We built a life together.
Three children.
Janet.
Charlie.
Roman.
Then came five grandchildren.
There were decades of birthdays, arguments, Christmas mornings, hospital visits, vacations, ordinary Tuesdays, and all the small moments that somehow become a marriage.
Walter died two weeks earlier.
During his final months, hospice nurses came to our house.
I sat beside him every day and held the same hand I had first held when we were young.
Losing him felt like losing
