October 3, 2018
We met. At first, we were just talking—nothing more than friendly conversations as we slowly learned each other’s worlds. We talked about our dreams, the things we loved, the things we didn’t, and the lives we hoped to build. We shared our pasts and everything we had already survived. Even then, I could tell you had carried so much pain through the years before we ever crossed paths.
November 8, 2018
We started dating. Going on real dates, spending intentional time together, dreaming out loud about a future side by side. Not long after, you moved back to Georgia. Even with the distance, we FaceTimed every single day. We talked about me and the kids moving down, about all of us finally being a family.
January 1, 2019
You were driving home from a New Year’s party. You told me you hadn’t been drinking. Your truck hydroplaned, left the road, and hit a tree. You were devastated and terrified, unsure of what to do next. Months later, you told me the truth—you had driven off the road on purpose. You had tried to hit a tree, but the wet ground pulled the truck, and you survived in a way you hadn’t planned. You lived when you didn’t want to.
January 13, 2019
We broke up. We were nearly a thousand miles apart, living two very different lives. You needed space to heal your mind. You weren’t mentally able to hold a relationship together while you were trying to piece yourself back together.
March 28, 2019
You called me. We FaceTimed for three hours because you weren’t okay. You were sitting in your car with the garage door closed, the engine running. I made you open the door and turn the car off. I stayed on the phone until you felt safe again. That night, you promised you would get help—and we found our way back to each other.
April 20, 2019
I came to see you. We drank wine, baked cookies, and laughed ourselves into that warm, tipsy happiness in your kitchen. We talked for hours about how much you were struggling. You told me about the idea that in every relationship there’s a gardener and a flower—and you needed to be the flower for a while. We held each other close. That day, I knew that no matter what challenges came our way, you were my person.
May 14, 2019
You came to New York to spend my birthday week with me. You were there when Addy was diagnosed. You climbed most of Blue Mountain with me. We got engaged, then celebrated my birthday with drinks and laughter. After that week, you went home and started your new job, carrying so much hope with you.
June 14, 2019
I moved to Georgia. It was an exciting, overwhelming time. We found out I was pregnant, and becoming a parent was all you talked about. You helped me grow into the parent I always wanted to be. You showed me parts of myself I never knew existed. We fell asleep together every night, wrapped in each other, and on the surface everything felt okay. But I knew you still needed help. You gave me signs—quiet ones, constant ones. You left the house more than once with your dad’s ashes and a pistol. Every time, I talked you down and begged you to come home. You never went when I asked you to get help, but I never stopped asking. I never stopped reminding you how much you mattered.
August 13, 2019
We had a fight. At the time, it felt huge. You told me to go rinse off the negative energy, so I went to shower—but I ended up taking a bath instead. You wrote your letter. You checked on me, pulled me from the tub, and we cried together. You helped me get dressed, and we laid in bed. You held me all night long, just like you always did. For a moment, it felt like we could still make it work.
August 14, 2019
You woke up to your alarm and went through your usual routine. You kissed me goodbye and walked out of the room. I tried to fall back asleep, but then I heard your car start. Something didn’t feel right. Your work clothes were still where I left them, your boots still by the bathroom door. I ran downstairs, turned the car off, took the keys, opened the garage door, and made you come inside. You stared at the ground, tears falling silently. I hugged you and told you I loved you. I asked if I should call for help. You said no—and told me if I did, you’d kill the EMTs and then yourself.
Owen came downstairs and saw us crying. I asked him to hug you. He told you he loved you, and you didn’t want to let go. I made you help me get the kids ready so we could take Owen to school. You didn’t want to go, but I was terrified to leave you alone. I tried to hold your hand on the drive, but you pulled away. You wouldn’t speak or look at me. You walked Owen into school, told him you loved him, then returned to the car in silence.
We had an appointment that day to find out what we were having. When we got home, you held Addy and put her in her jumper. You let the dogs out and played with Gunner. I kept asking you to shower, to rinse off the heaviness. You sat at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the floor. I asked if you wanted me to shower with you. You shook your head no. I kissed your head, rubbed your back, told you I loved you, and ran my fingers through your hair. I quietly took your truck keys because I knew you had a pistol and I was scared you’d leave and hurt yourself. I put them in the garage.
When I heard our bedroom door close, relief washed over me. I thought you were just going to shower. I went to find my phone—and then I heard you. Your body hit the floor and the door. You were struggling. I ran upstairs and found the door locked. I kicked and begged with everything in me, screaming for you to let me in.
I ran to the neighbors. No one answered. I grabbed Owen’s tablet and begged my friends on Snapchat to call 911. I ran back upstairs and kept throwing my body against the door, desperate and exhausted, wondering how anyone ever survives moments like this. Then help arrived.
I led the police upstairs and watched them kick the door in on the first try. I saw you hanging there, in the closet doorway, from the pull-up bar. You were tall enough—you could have stood up. I couldn’t accept what I was seeing.
EMTs rushed in, firefighters followed, and I was pulled outside. They asked me endless questions before telling me they had done everything they could—but you were gone. You had taken my phone so I couldn’t call for help. I wanted my mom so badly. I watched people move in and out of our house as the police stayed behind. I sat there for what felt like hours. When they finally brought you downstairs, I gave you our last kiss. They covered you with the flag and took you away. That was the last time I saw you.
August 15–19, 2019
I laid in the places where your blood had landed during the struggle. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t understand how life was still moving. I heard the officer’s voice over and over in my head. I saw you everywhere—in doorways, in my dreams, in the passenger seat of my car. When I moved back to New York, you followed me there too. Everywhere I went, I saw signs that you were still with me.
October 1, 2019
I miss you. I think about you constantly. I’m getting bigger now, and Ryder never stops moving. You were so excited for this stage of the pregnancy, but you didn’t make it here. I carry your ashes with me wherever I go. I hold them every night, just to feel close to you again.
Nicholas Joachim Lazar
March 22, 1997 – August 14, 2019
Forever 22 years old.
