My husband died on a rainy Thursday, and everyone said it was a tragic accident. I tried to believe that until his boss called and told me Liam had left something behind with my name on it.
My husband, Liam, died on a rainy Thursday night.
That was the sentence everyone used, so I used it too. It was clean. Simple. It did not say what the sentence really meant, which was that one wet curve outside town split my life in half.
The police said he lost control of the car. The road was slick. His tires were worn. There were no witnesses.
They called it an accident.
At the funeral, people kept saying the same things.
I believed them because I had no strength for anything else.
Liam was careful in all the small ways that make up a life. He checked the locks twice. He kept jumper cables in the trunk. He filled the gas tank before it dropped below half. He still used the same old keychain he had for years, a plain metal washer our daughter had painted blue once and declared fancy.
