Mary—my wife.
Emma—our six-year-old daughter.
I remember standing alone in my kitchen, gripping the phone, staring into nothingness.
After that, life became routine instead of living. I worked, came home, reheated frozen meals, and ate in silence. Friends checked in. My sister called every week. None of it filled the emptiness.
I kept Emma’s drawings on the fridge until they faded yellow. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.
I never believed I’d be a father again. That part of me felt buried with them.
But life has a strange way of surprising you when you’ve stopped expecting anything.
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