Rain changed forever the night my husband died.
Everyone kept repeating the same sentence as if saying it enough times would make it easier to survive.
“Liam died in a tragic accident.”
So I repeated it too.
It sounded cleaner than the truth.
The truth was that one wet curve outside town shattered my life so completely that even breathing afterward felt unfamiliar.
The police said his car lost traction on the slick road. His tires were worn. There were no witnesses. No signs of foul play.
Just rain.
At the funeral, people kept squeezing my hands and offering the same gentle phrases.
“He adored you.”
“He loved those children more than anything.”
“You had a good man.”
And they were right. Liam had been good in all the ordinary ways that truly matter. He checked the locks twice before bed. He never let the gas tank fall below half. He kept jumper cables in the trunk even though we barely needed them. His keys still hung from the same old ring—a plain metal washer our daughter Ava had painted blue years ago because she wanted Daddy to have something “fancy.”
