13
It had been two weeks since the surgery. Two weeks since our short-lived joy had disappeared in a haze of blood and pain. I had been a father. Now I wasn’t anymore. The feeling was surreal and vacating, like movers had come in the night and relocated all of my emotions and my perceptions, and had left me with nothing instead.
It was how I felt after Millie’s death, but on steroids. Times a thousand. In fact, the only other time I remember feeling this gutted was after Lizzy’s death. And this time it came pre-loaded with something else. Something extra.
Guilt.
Because this was my punishment. How could it not be? How could I have ever thought that a wife, a family, would be things I could have after what I’d done? After the calling I’d abandoned?
No. God was punishing me. Like Bathsh
