The first thing that hit me was the quiet. Not the soft, Sunday-morning kind either. The wrong kind. The kind that makes your stomach drop before your brain knows why. Maisie was only three months old then. I was used to living in two-hour bursts—feeding, changing, rocking, dozing off sitting up. Silence did not exist in our house. But that morning, it did. I rolled over and saw an empty space where my wife should’ve been. No Erin. Just a dent in the pillow and a tangle of blanket….CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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