When I woke, my husband, Robert, was beside the bed, holding my hand with a grip that hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said.

“We lost the little one.”

It was the first time I had seen Robert cry.

Our marriage survived the birth but not much else.

Robert grew secretive and distant.

He died in a highway accident six years later, leaving unpaid bills and boxes of records I sorted while Wyatt was still in elementary school.

I had told myself grief explained the changes in him.