Lucas was born a healthy eight pounds, four ounces. I was at the hospital with flowers and a handmade blanket I had spent months knitting. Cassandra seemed overwhelmed by motherhood from the start, often calling me in tears about Lucas’s colic or her exhaustion. I stepped in as much as I could, sometimes watching Lucas overnight so she could sleep. Adam was less involved with Lucas than I was. In retrospect, I thought it was because of our own infertility struggles—that it might be painful for him to bond with a baby who was not ours. He was always kind when Cassandra brought Lucas over, but he maintained a certain distance that I never questioned at the time.

Then came that terrible Tuesday morning. Adam complained of a headache before leaving for work. I suggested he stay home, but he had an important client meeting. “Just a migraine,” he insisted, kissing me goodbye. “I will call you after the meeting.”

That call never came. Instead, I got one from the hospital. By the time I arrived, he was already gone. Brain aneurysm, they said. Nothing could have been done. He was thirty-six years old.

The next days passed in a blur of arrangements and grief. Cassandra was strangely absent during most of it, sending text messages claiming Lucas was sick or she could not find a babysitter. When she did appear at the funeral, she stayed briefly, keeping to herself and leaving before the reception. I was too numb with grief to think much of it at the time.