Three Hours Before She Jumps

Summary

The memory of the day my wife died will forever remain a jagged tear in my mind.

In my past life, I had rushed home from an out-of-town conference, twenty minutes late, only to find Sadie standing on the sill of our eighteenth-floor apartment window. The autumn wind whipped her hair across her hollow, tear-streaked face. When her eyes found mine, she whispered five words that broke me in two: “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

Then she leaned back into empty air.

In the nursery, our three-month-old daughter, Piper, lay in her crib—motionless, cyanotic, suffocated.