Jack died while I was six months pregnant, leaving me with our four-year-old daughter, another baby on the way, and more unanswered questions than I ever expected.<\/p>\n
I was thirty-five, and our daughter Lucy still believed her father would somehow come home. During those difficult months, our days had become a collection of appointments, phone calls, household responsibilities, and small family routines. Jack tried to keep things light whenever he could.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know you don\u2019t have to organize every second of the day,\u201d he once told me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m six months pregnant, Lucy is four, and everything has changed. Someone has to keep things organized.\u201d<\/p>\n
He smiled. \u201cYou\u2019re impossible.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ve been together since high school. You knew that already.\u201d<\/p>\n
He laughed.<\/p>\n
That was how we had always been. I worried about details, Jack found a way to make me smile, and neither of us liked talking about the things that frightened us.<\/p>\n
In the weeks before he passed away, I noticed that Jack had become unusually private. He occasionally left the house without explaining where he was going and spent more time on his laptop.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere were you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOut.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFor that long?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI had something to take care of.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat kind of something?\u201d<\/p>\n
He smiled. \u201cThe kind you\u2019ll understand eventually.\u201d<\/p>\n