I remember my daughter sobbing in the bathroom. My son going silent, shutting down completely. Me, standing in the middle of the kitchen at 2 a.m., staring at Peter’s coffee mug still sitting by the sink.
And through all of it, there was Daniel.
Dan wasn’t just Peter’s friend. They were brothers in every way that mattered. They’d grown up three houses apart, survived college together on ramen and bad decisions, road-tripped across the country when they were 22 and too broke to afford hotels.
Dan had his own complications. He’d gotten married young, divorced after three years, and was doing his best to co-parent a little girl who deserved better than the mess her parents had made.
He never badmouthed his ex. Never played the victim. I always respected that about him.
