In November of 2017 I walked into the my home with my best friend and my oldest child fifteen at the time to find my husband of 17 years dead on the bathroom floor. Because he had been home alone for the weekend as the kids and I were out of town with my friend and her family. I don't remember my friend calling 911 or my mother, I remember very little of the first few hours aside from the fact that because he was alone we were all interrogated while they attempted to determine what had happened. The detective going so far as to suggest to my fifteen year old that had he been home with his father he might be alive, so my now sixteen year old is suffering from a rotating case of guilt and anger. I wonder every day if things would have turned out differently had I stayed home that weekend instead of taking the kids to see their cousins for the weekend or if it would have ended the same with our smaller ones in the house. I will never get that image out of my head of my husband, the person that has been my best friend, my confidant, the other half of me, laying on the bathroom floor. I don't know how I am supposed to go on our oldest turned sixteen in March our two youngest turned 7 and 8 this month, but I think that the worst date yet was the fact that the day after we found him was our daughters birthday that day will never be the same for her she will never see it in joy again. People say that time is supposed to heal that things will get easier but I think that is crap, I don't sleep any more I don't eat right most days I just muddle through and make sure that the kids are getting what they need. Life may go on but I am not sure how I am supposed too. Enough pills to take out ten men and one weekend unsupervised was all it took for my whole world to fall apart.