Jack never took sick days. In the twelve years I had known him, he had gone to work with migraines, with fevers, with a sprained ankle he insisted was “just sore.” He had shown up the morning after his mother’s funeral, tie slightly crooked, eyes red but posture straight, as if grief were something to be scheduled after office hours. So when he called in sick on a random Tuesday in March, I noticed. The house felt off-balance from the start. He didn’t get dressed. He didn’t check emails. He sat at the kitchen table staring into a mug of coffee that had long gone cold. I asked if he needed to see a doctor.

He said no. I asked if he wanted soup. He said maybe later. His voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from somewhere deeper than his chest. I assumed it was stress. Work had been demanding lately, and he’d mentioned a big project deadline. I told myself this was what burnout looked like in someone who never slowed down. But then the doorbell rang. It was midmorning—too early for packages, too late for neighborhood kids. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and walked to the front door, expecting a delivery driver.