months.
The days became paperwork.
Custody forms.
Financial documents.
College funds.
Mortgage information.
Seven lunches every morning.
Seven names written on seven paper bags.
And endless questions.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Is he coming to my game?”
“Did we do something wrong?”
That last question came from six-year-old Leo.
“No, sweetheart.”
I said it immediately.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Someone had.
But it wasn’t him.
I had to learn everything Daniel had always handled.
Utilities.
Insurance.
Mortgage.
Banking.
Sometimes I lay awake furious.
Other nights I was simply numb.
Ben still
