The love of my life died when she was 38. Our four children were 15, 13, 11 and 9 at the time. They’re currently 22, 24, 26, 28. I did my best that I knew how to do. I know it is not what they deserved. I could never take her place.

I do not think that I can impart, with words, how hard it was keeping her from the things that would harm her most. Aa time goes on, the trauma hits me harder, as I let it in, little by little.

I love my late wife. I love the mother of my children. Keeping her from hurting herself was… Difficult.

The wracking sobs as I called 911, while performing CPR on her. It’s been almost 15 years and it’s still traumatizing.

Her mother blames me for her death. To be honest. She might be right. I didn’t keep her baby safe. I could have tried harder. I could have insisted on her being committed. I could have abrogated her right to self determination. But I didn’t. And that’s on me.

But I can’t tell her mother that. Or her sons or daughter.

Instead. I tell you. Thanks for listening.