My wife, Jenna, approached life differently from me.
She possessed a kindness that difficult experiences had never managed to diminish. She thanked cashiers who barely acknowledged her, remembered birthdays other people overlooked, and prepared cookies for our mail carrier every December because she believed even small gestures could make someone’s day better.
When we moved into our modest rental home, I repeatedly promised to repair the porch steps, repaint the walls, and replace our scratched kitchen table before our child arrived.
Jenna would smile and remind me that a home was about more than furniture or fresh paint.
Then she bought inexpensive secondhand curtains, washed them carefully, and transformed our small nursery into a welcoming space despite our limited budget.
Seven days before everything changed, Jenna gave birth to our son, Wesley.
He arrived with a surprisingly loud cry, a tiny red face, and little fists barely bigger than bottle caps. Jenna became emotional when the nurse placed him against her chest. Although I tried to conceal my own feelings from everyone, I cried too.
My mother, Diane, and my younger sister, Brooke, stood beside us in that hospital room, smiling proudly.
