My son’s 19 now, studying engineering somewhere out west. My daughter just turned 21 and picked a college as far east as she could get, probably just to prove she could.
The house feels wrong without them… without my Peter. It’s hauntingly quiet and empty… like it’s holding its breath.
Peter used to say our life was ordinary, and he meant it as the highest compliment. Soccer games on Saturday mornings. Burned dinners we’d laugh about while ordering pizza. Arguments about whose turn it was to take out the trash.
He’d try to fix things himself even though we both knew he’d just make it worse, and I’d pretend to be annoyed while watching him curse at the kitchen sink.
He wasn’t perfect. God knows he drove me crazy sometimes. But he was steady, kind, and he made me feel safe in a way I didn’t even know I needed until it was gone.
Six years ago, a drunk driver ran a red light on Peter’s way home from work. A police officer came to my door, and I remember collapsing on the porch in tears.
I don’t remember much about the weeks after. Just fragments.
