The Life I Thought Was Over

Our children filled the house with noise. Toys scattered across the floors. Shoes abandoned in hallways. Laughter echoing down the stairs. It was messy and loud and alive.

Peter used to call our life “ordinary,” and he meant it as praise.

Saturday soccer games. Burnt dinners we joked about while ordering pizza. Arguments over whose turn it was to take out the trash. He wasn’t perfect—he drove me absolutely crazy at times—but he was steady. Kind. Dependable. He made me feel safe in ways I didn’t even recognize until that safety vanished.

Six years ago, a drunk driver ran a red light on Peter’s way home from work.

I remember the police officer standing on my porch. I remember the look on his face before he spoke. And then I remember collapsing, my knees hitting the wood as my world split open.

The weeks that followed exist in my memory as fragments.

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