I buried my husband when our daughter, Susie, was only three months old.
He never saw her crawl. He never heard her laugh. He never held her hand on her first day of school. From the moment he died, it was just the two of us against the world. I had to learn strength because there was no other choice. I learned how to smile through exhaustion, how to stretch one paycheck into two, and how to answer questions like, “Where’s my dad?” without falling apart.
Susie grew up knowing her father only through stories, photographs, and a few old voicemail recordings I could never bring myself to delete. She was gentle, thoughtful, and far more introspective than most children her age. Sometimes I would catch her staring at his picture on the mantel, her fingers lightly tracing the frame as if it were a doorway to him.
Still, I never imagined what would happen when she turned eighteen.
It was an ordinary evening. The dishes were done, the television murmured in the background, and I was walking past the hallway when I heard Susie’s voice—soft, careful—coming from the landline phone we hardly used anymore.
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