My husband appeared on the baby monitor every night at 2 a.m. carrying a mysterious paper bag—when I finally watched him open it, I gasped

his handwriting had become uneven.

I read the sentence that broke me.

“This is the night I was afraid your mom would stop loving herself enough to stay. This is also the night you smiled in your sleep, and I loved you so much it felt like being stabbed.”

Then I understood.

He was another drowning person floating only inches from me in the dark, and neither continue reading …