I became a widow while I was still pregnant—and just days after giving birth to my daughter, a police officer found a strange envelope waiting outside my home.
I was seven months PREGNANT when my husband, Ethan, D! ED. One night, we sat together on the couch laughing about baby names, playfully arguing over which one sounded better.
By the following afternoon, a state trooper was standing at my door telling me my husband had been involved in a fatal accident.
Everything after that became a haze. I hardly remember the FUNERAL. I barely remember the people who filled my house afterward with casseroles, flowers, condolences, and quiet conversations.
For weeks, I survived by repeating the same words to myself. I have to stay STRONG for our BABY.
When my daughter was finally born, she became the one thing keeping me anchored.
For the first time since Ethan’s death, I had someone to hold. Someone who still needed me.
Three days later, the doctors cleared us to leave the hospital. All I wanted was to bring my little girl home and begin figuring out how to live this new life without her father.
But the moment I turned onto our street in Maplewood, New Jersey, something felt terribly WRONG.
