in those early years, Carl was the kind of husband and father people hope they will have.
Not flashy.
Not dramatic.
Just present.
He knew bedtime routines.
He knew which daughter preferred which cereal.
He knew the difference between their laughs even from another room.
He showed up.
And for five years, we had a happy, functioning family.
Then one Tuesday morning in March, Emily complained of a headache.
Nothing about that morning felt important.
That is something nobody warns you about.
The worst days of your life rarely look
