Seven years ago today. Its a blur, a distant memory, yet it stands clearer in my mind than probably any other event if my life.
It was a sunny Saturday morning. The day before Mother's Day. The long awaited day for this southern girl to finally get to plant her flowers since we made it out of the northern freeze period. I was 6 months pregnant with Evan. Life was good.
We met my husbands brother, his brother's family and his dad at a McDonalds and had breakfast before carpooling to a local nursery to buy our flowers. As we finished up breakfast my brother-in-law got a phone call. Every one was clearing tables and refilling their drinks as I saw him hit his knees on the sidewalk. The next three days I see as a slow motion movie.
Their brother had committed suicide.
A husband and father of two. A man who loved and spoiled my oldest child like he was his own. A brother. A business owner. And a lover of all practical jokes.
I never had and hope I never will again see my husband cry so much. Or hear or ask the questions why, how, or when. See the broken hearts of a wife and children left behind. Feel the pain of parents losing a child too early.
Some of the questions are answered. Some never will be. And life will never be viewed the same.
But one thing I know is that no matter what your circumstances, no matter how much you convince yourself that you won't be missed, no matter how bad life seems to be at the moment, you are loved. And when all is said and done, the people in your life would give anything to have you back.
You are missed and remembered today and always.
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