After losing my newborn son, I gave everything away to a struggling mother—by morning, dozens of strollers covered my lawn, each holding a sealed box

closet. Thomas and I assembled it once for a practice run down the hallway, then packed it away again. Thomas was also gone now.

A week ago, I’d stepped into our bedroom and caught him packing.

“You’re really leaving me?” I’d said.

“I can’t stay here,” he answered. “Every time I walk past that door, I feel like I’m being continue reading …