The Life I Thought Was Over

My daughter crying quietly in the bathroom, trying not to be heard.
My son retreating into silence, his grief turning inward and heavy.
Me standing alone in the kitchen at two in the morning, staring at Peter’s coffee mug still sitting by the sink, as if he might come back for it.

And through all of that, there was Daniel.

Daniel wasn’t just Peter’s friend. They were brothers in every way that mattered. They grew up three houses apart, survived college together on ramen noodles and questionable decisions, and once road-tripped across the country at twenty-two with no money and no real plan.

Daniel had his own complicated life. He’d married young. Divorced too quickly. He was doing his best to co-parent a little girl who deserved more stability than either of her parents had managed to provide. But he never complained. Never blamed his ex. Never painted himself as the victim.

I respected that about him.

After Peter died, Daniel didn’t ask what I needed. He didn’t hover or perform grief for attention. He simply showed up.

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