My husband, David, was a man carved from goodness and hard work, a man who valued time with his family above the siren call of career ambition. Weekends were sacred, reserved for trips to the park where he’d push the kids on the swings until their laughter echoed through the trees. Weekday evenings had their own gentle rhythm, a comfortable ritual of clearing the dinner table to make way for a board game, our four heads bent together in friendly competition.

Our two children were the twin suns my world revolved around. Ryan, at eight years old, was a bright, thoughtful third grader, his report cards a consistent source of pride. But it was his heart that made mine swell. His kindness, his innate protectiveness toward his little sister, was a constant wonder.