The Friday After Thanksgiving

Four hours beneath emergency room lights,

watching doctors stitch the wounds

a dog had left behind. I was scared for you.

Truly scared. The girls were away.

The night had been meant for us.

Instead, I brought you home,

wrapped in pain and exhaustion,

trying to be the husband you still needed.

That's when you told me. Not in anger.

Not in the middle of a fight. Just quietly.

You'd tried to stay. You'd made up your mind.

Winter pressed against the windows.

I asked for one thing: one last holiday season

for our daughters: Christmas and New Year.

Afterward their world would split in two.

You said yes, so we carried December

like a fragile ornament, careful not to break it

before the girls could enjoy its glow.

Then January 2nd came. and with it,

the words that changed everything.