thing I had said to my five-year-old daughter was something ordinary about putting on her seat belt.
She rolled her eyes at me in that exaggerated way she had recently learned.
And that was it.
The final moment.
Three days after Emily’s funeral, Carl sat beside me at the kitchen table.
We had barely spoken since the hospital.
We were living in the same house but moving through grief separately.
I assumed that was normal.
Then Carl said,
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore.”
I thought he meant grief.
