Sundays will be hard—for a long time. Sundays were family day. They would start lazy, with Mikey letting me sleep in.
After an aperitif of cereal, the girls would squeal when I finally emerged from our bedroom. Soon the house would be filled with the aroma of French press coffee. Hot bacon would spatter and sizzle in the cast iron.
Last Sunday was supposed to be a dark, stormy day. The brightly shining sun was a surprise, and it meant Mikey got to play one last game of paddle ball with a good friend.
It meant he got to help Isabella ride her bike one last time.
It meant we were not home when he died.
I’ve never been so grateful for a sunny day. Had it been raining, we would’ve in all likelihood been home when his heart stopped beating, getting ready for dinner.
Tonight I will summon all my strength to be thankful at 5:52pm. I will cherish the 16 years we had together. I will hold my girls, our girls, a bit closer. I will survive this because Mikey would expect nothing less from me.