I Buried My Husband the Day My Daughter Was Born

I pushed the stroller in to sell our home.

The agent ran through the routine questions.

"Selling the marital home—does your husband agree to this?"

The baby suddenly burst into tears.

With practiced ease, I cradled her in my left arm and signed with my right.

The signature came out a little crooked, because my wrist had been aching for a month.

"I'm widowed."

The man named Tom Henson was still very much alive.

Living exactly the way he had before our marriage—bright, golden, doing whatever he pleased.

But as my daughter's father, the day she was born, he died.