My husband di:ed on a rainy Thursday, and everyone called it a tragic acc:ident.

I tried to believe that—until his boss called and told me Liam had left something behind with my name on it.

People kept repeating the same sentence: he lost control of the car, the road was wet, there were no witnesses. It sounded simple, almost comforting. So I repeated it too, because I didn’t have the strength to question anything. But deep down, something about it never felt right. Liam was careful in all the quiet ways that matter—he checked locks twice, kept jumper cables in the trunk, never let the gas tank drop too low. He wasn’t careless. He wasn’t reckless.

At the funeral, people said what they always say.

“He adored you.”

“He loved those kids.”