You didn't come home today. You never came. You promised me last night that you'd be home at one. I was so happy, ecstatic, even. By one-oh-five today, you still hadn't arrived, so I waited, patient. At one-ten, you still weren't home, so I called your work. No one had seen you since nine. So I waited still. At one-thirty, I called your cell. No answer, but the answering machine played your voice. That made me cry.

I cried and yelled and screamed and pounded the floor and woke our baby, Max. Then we cried together. Why aren't you here? You never are. And the one time you should be, you didn't come. You will never come home again.