He smiled.
I believed him.
By the time Daniel stopped driving, I was so close to giving birth that we had settled into a strange routine.
Carol drove us to appointments.
Daniel insisted it was because I needed somebody available at all times.
“I can still drive,” I argued.
“Not with your stomach touching the steering wheel.”
“It does not touch the steering wheel.”
“Bianca, the babies could steer.”
I laughed.
That was Daniel.
Even when he looked pale, even when he had to sit down halfway through folding laundry, he found a way to make me laugh.
Then, three weeks before the twins were born, he died.
The world did not prepare me for how quickly an ordinary day could become the dividing line between one life and another.
There was the life in which Daniel stood beside two empty cribs, joking about diapers.
Then there was the life in which I came home without him.
