Some Things Are Just Meant To Be

ing the frantic beat of my heart as my mothe

reets were flooded, and

ht and cheerful over the noisy clatter of plates an

ever

ived, their grim faces confirming

ssage was a screenshot that froze my blood: my wife, Sarah, laughing, head thrown back, a wine glass

I' d called her, while my mother lay dying, S

ngs are just meant to b

-it wasn' t an accident. It was a choice. My grief for my moth

entences, fueled by pure, distilled