When my husband passed away, I thought grief would be the hardest thing I’d ever face. But only days after the funeral, when our son couldn’t sleep in his own bed, I realized how little I truly understood.
Daniel and I had been married for sixteen years when cancer took him from us. We had six children—Caleb, ten; Emma, eight; twins Lily and Nora, six; Jacob, four; and baby Sophie, just two years old when her father passed.
Before the diagnosis, our life had been beautifully ordinary.
Saturday mornings meant pancakes and cartoons. Daniel always flipped the pancakes too soon.
Voir la suite dans la page suivante:
