I told my son his father just died. He said, «It’s my wife’s birthday». Weeks later! He got a letter from my lawyer . He read it and froze…

I told my son his father just died. He said, it’s Megan’s birthday. Can we talk tomorrow? That was the moment I realized I didn’t just lose a husband, I lost a son too.

He never showed up to the funeral, but three weeks later, he got a letter from my lawyer. He opened it and froze. I did something he will never forget, and I never said a word.

Gerald died right there at the kitchen table, halfway through a joke about how I’d bought the wrong kind of cream again. If I drop dead from this powdered nonsense, he said, chuckling, tapping his spoon against the side of his mug, you’ll finally know real guilt.

Then his hand twitched. The spoon slipped. His eyes widened like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

I dropped the butter knife I was using and ran to him, screaming his name, but he was already gone. His body went limp before I could even call. 9-1-1.

Before my knees hit the tile. Before I could ask him if it was another one of his goddamn jokes. It wasn’t.

The operator’s voice in my ear was calm while my world split open. I kept whispering his name while they guided me through chest compressions, but I already knew. I knew from the way his head slumped against his shoulder, from how cold his fingers felt when I tried to hold them.

When the paramedics arrived, I stepped aside, numb, hearing words like massive, unrecoverable, DNR, and I just nodded. The house felt suddenly too loud and too quiet at the same time. I sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the floor, and after they’d covered him, after they’d told me there was nothing more they could do, I picked up my phone.

I called Nathan, my only son. It rang five times. When he finally answered, I was shaking but I managed to say, Nathan, it’s dad.

He just collapsed. He’s dead. There was a pause and then his voice, flat, distracted, said, Oh, mom, today’s Megan’s birthday…