He’d insist on fixing things himself, even though we both knew he’d probably make them worse. I’d pretend to be annoyed while secretly watching him mutter at the kitchen sink.
He wasn’t perfect. He drove me crazy more than once. But he was reliable, gentle, and made me feel safe in a way I didn’t even realize I needed until it was gone.
Six years ago, a drunk driver ran a red light while Peter was heading home from work. A police officer came to my door, and I remember collapsing onto the porch, sobbing.
The weeks that followed are mostly a blur—just broken pieces.
My daughter crying in the bathroom.
My son withdrawing into silence.
Me standing in the kitchen at two in the morning, staring at Peter’s coffee mug still by the sink.
And through all of it, there was Daniel.
Dan wasn’t just Peter’s friend. They were brothers in every way that mattered. They grew up three houses apart, survived college on ramen and bad decisions, and took a cross-country road trip at twenty-two when they were too broke to pay for hotels.