When Grant passed away, I believed grief would be the hardest thing I would ever endure. I was wrong. Just days after the funeral, our oldest, Clay, couldn’t sleep in his bed—and that’s when I uncovered a secret I hadn’t anticipated.
Grant and I had been married for sixteen years, raising six children: Clay, ten; Elle, eight; the twins Liv and Eve, six; Zane, four; and baby Della, two. Our life had once felt ordinary: Saturday mornings filled with messy pancakes, loud cartoons, and the endless chatter of our children. Grant had a grin that could ease anything, teasing Clay as he flipped pancakes too early. “Patience is overrated, buddy,” he’d say. And he always meant it.
Grant wasn’t just steady;continue reading …
