I met June at twenty-two in a campus coffee shop where she worked double shifts and still somehow made everyone feel less alone. I’d pretend I needed more sugar just to talk to her. She knew; she let me anyway.

By twenty-five we were inseparable, living in a shoebox with creaky floors and a balcony that tolerated exactly two chairs. The water ran rust-colored every third Tuesday. The place smelled like the bakery downstairs. It was chaotic and perfect. We danced barefoot in the kitchen. We argued about toothpaste caps. We made plans for “one day” when life would finally slow down.

We got married in my sister’s backyard—string lights, dollar-store décor, a playlist we made the night before. June wore a pale blue dress with embroidered flowers and no shoes. “I don’t want frills,” she said. “I want us.”

We wanted kids from the start but kept waiting for the mythical right time—her residency, my job, rent, timing. When she finally told me she was pregnant, we sank to the kitchen floor, laughing and crying at the same time. “Terrified,” she whispered. “But good.” I promised we’d be okay. I believed it.

We decided not to find out the sex. “Healthy,” I kept saying, as if saying it made it so. Each time, June echoed me—“Healthy”—and hesitated for half a breath I chose not to notice.

The night labor started, the hospital lights felt too bright. Her epidural failed; everything moved fast. I wanted to stay, but she squeezed my hand. “Go wait with the others,” she said. “I don’t want you to see me like this.” She meant it. I kissed her forehead and let them wheel her away.