“Babe, tomorrow isn’t even promised,” I told him.
I sat across the table from my husband, our almost two-year-old son wedged between us as we ate soup for dinner. I was fighting off a cold, exhausted and worn down. My husband talked animatedly about the future—goals, plans, dreams that stretched years ahead. He spoke about building a business, owning a home, creating a beautiful life together as a family. They were good dreams, hopeful dreams. But in that moment, they felt so far away. I nodded and smiled, yet my heart couldn’t reach that future he was describing.
Truthfully, it was hard for me to imagine much of anything back then. We had been married three years and welcomed our first son during that time, navigating all the highs and lows that come with young marriage and new parenthood. We had also endured two miscarriages within months of each other. The weight of that grief still clung to me. As I sat across from my husband, listening to him dream, all I could think about was whether the baby I was carrying—our fourth pregnancy—would stay. I wasn’t confident about tomorrow. I wasn’t sure about anything at all.
“Babe, tomorrow isn’t even promised,” I said again.
That night, as I tossed and turned trying to get comfortable, I had no idea how painfully true those words would become the very next day.
Jonathan and I met at church youth group when I was around fourteen or fifteen. He was two years and eight months older—silly, mysterious, always dancing, always on his skateboard. He was the friend-who-is-a-boy I invited to my baptism in 2009. After being submerged in freezing river water, I walked toward him soaking wet. The first thing he said was, “Don’t hug me!” So, naturally, I wrapped my arms around him and drenched his shirt. He always gave the best hugs. Even now, if I close my eyes tight enough, I can still imagine my face tucked into his shoulder, his arms wrapped firmly around my waist, my hands resting on the back of his neck.
During the summer of 2010, we shared our first kiss. I had asked him to take me to the mall—any excuse to see him. After he drove me home, he stepped out of the car to hug me. Nervous and inexperienced, I awkwardly pecked his neck, and then everything changed. He kissed me—really kissed me—and I squirmed away, giggling. From that moment on, I couldn’t imagine a life where I didn’t kiss him.
On February 26, 2011, I convinced him to take me to an art show at a local museum. We left early because it wasn’t nearly as impressive as I had imagined. Standing by the car afterward, he kissed me and casually said, “So I guess you’re my girlfriend.” Our story officially began that day. I didn’t realize until the day he died that our story would also have an official end.
We married on May 16, 2013—his 22nd birthday. I teased him that I would forever be his best birthday gift. I was only nineteen. It was a rainy May morning, and I wore a yellow sundress to the courthouse. He wore a jacket and a hat. With one friend as our witness, a judge married us in a small courtroom. An hour later, I sat in my college chemistry class taking my final exam, newly married to the love of my life. Three months later, we held a ceremony for family and friends to celebrate with us.
In June 2014, we welcomed our firstborn son, Jonathan Jr. I will never forget the way my husband glowed as a new father. He changed the first diapers, rocked the baby while I breastfed endlessly, and stepped fully into fatherhood. As our son grew and learned to walk, he followed his daddy everywhere. Like father, like son. I just never imagined that his journey as a father would be cut so short.
Fast forward to May 26, 2016. We had just celebrated his 25th birthday and our third wedding anniversary. I was three months pregnant, sick with a cold, home with our toddler, waiting for my husband to return from work. The night before, I had told him tomorrow wasn’t promised—never knowing that this day would be his last.
When he didn’t come home, panic set in. I called his mom as darkness fell and bedtime passed. Eventually, she found him—he was in the ICU at a hospital thirty minutes away. My heart raced as we drove. It felt endless. His brother arrived first and called with an update: “They say he might not make it through the night.”
At the hospital, I ran inside, past security, toward the elevator. “Walk, please!” someone yelled behind me. Overhead, a robotic voice echoed: “Code blue, ICU.”
The elevator doors opened. I ran down the hallway as the announcement repeated. I watched nurses rush in and out, grabbing supplies. No one spoke to me. No one explained anything.
Time passed in a blur. More family arrived. Finally, a young man led us into a private room and began speaking. I don’t remember his words, only that he used past tense.
“You said had,” I interrupted.
He didn’t correct himself.
I ran from the room and dry-heaved in the hallway, my body collapsing under the weight of grief. My soul felt crushed. Later, an older doctor came in and officially told us my husband was gone. “But he wasn’t old!” I cried. He died at 10:49 p.m.
When I was allowed to see him, I placed my hand on his cold chest, willing his heart to beat. I memorized the wires, the swelling, the cut above his eyebrow. I kissed his forehead—my final goodbye. And I knew there would never be another tomorrow for us.
I went home a widow.
The weeks that followed were a haze. Trauma does that. I planned a funeral. My son and I moved in with my parents. Two weeks later, we celebrated my son’s second birthday. He kept asking for his Da-Da. I learned the baby I was carrying was a girl. Six months later, I gave birth to a healthy, beautiful rainbow baby—Jane. I cried and screamed through the grief that still felt unbearable.
My husband was killed when a vehicle turned left in front of his motorcycle. He didn’t survive. The other driver was fine. Another story of careless driving. Another motorcyclist lost.
It’s been nearly three and a half years. My son is five. My daughter almost three. I’ve lived longer than my husband ever did. We talk about Daddy every day. Life is divided into before and after. I still miss his laugh, his hugs, his love. I mourn what my children lost. And yet, we live. We laugh. We cling to God. We take life one day at a time.
After all, tomorrow isn’t even promised.
My husband always told me, “You’ll be okay.” And somehow, he was right. Woven through the pain are strands of love that continue to carry us forward. This life isn’t what I imagined—but it’s still worth living fully, loving deeply, and hoping for many more tomorrows.
