Diary of a Widower

Daily entries by a husband, who stayed behind with his two sons

Why did she have to die?

THURSDAY, November 12 – Capuccino at Bagels & Beans.  I look out the window.  On the other side of the street I see the boys’ school and on this side the court house where I have an appointment with the public prosecutor.  I have only one question plus one demand:  First, why did the motorcycle cop run a red light? And second, I want the truth and nothing but the truth.

I think back to a week ago:  Sander was sitting next to me, in this very same spot, as I explained to him what had to be done to put our administrative life more or less in order.  It was another good talk between father and son, one to cherish despite it all.

Last night when we were brushing our teeth, I asked Sander how he thought I was doing, as a father. His words: ‘You’re doing a fantastic job, all by yourself, in a situation like this.  Especially in the morning: making breakfast, lunch, taking the dog out.’

I gave him a kiss and thanked him. Jenn always said you should never brush aside a compliment, instead graciously accept it.  I still have that smile on my face. Can you see it, Jenn?

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