It started with a knock at the door and a man in a suit standing beside a black Mercedes. That morning, I’d packed lunches with one hand and unclogged the kitchen sink with the other.
Grace was crying about a lost teddy. Lily was upset about her crooked braid. And Max was drizzling maple syrup onto the floor for our dog.
A dog in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney
So no, I wasn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary.
My name is Lucas, and I’m 42. I’m a widower and an exhausted father of four.
Two years ago, just after our youngest, Grace, was born, my wife Emma was diagnosed with cancer. At first, we thought it was just exhaustion, the kind you laugh about six months later when the baby finally sleeps through the night.
But it wasn’t. It was aggressive, advanced, and cruel. In less than a year, Emma was gone.
A woman holding a newborn baby | Source: Pexels
Now it’s just me and the kids — Noah is nine, Lily’s seven, Max is five, and little Grace is two. I work full-time at a warehouse, and on nights and weekends, I pick up whatever jobs I can: fixing appliances, lifting furniture, and patching walls.
