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