And maybe that was the strangest part.
It did feel like luck.
Three months earlier, we’d still had a house in Lubbock, Texas. Not a mansion. Not anything fancy. But it had blue shutters, a pecan tree in the backyard, and a kitchen with yellow tile that I had hated when we bought it and loved by the time we lost it.
My husband, Travis, used to stand at the back door on summer evenings, iced tea in hand, calling for the kids to stop kicking the soccer ball at the fence. He had a voice that filled space. A voice that made you think nothing bad could happen as long as he was around to shout over it.
Then one Friday morning he walked into our kitchen with red eyes, a tie hanging loose around his neck, and said six words that tore our lives open.
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