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I’m ready for the sadness, but I don’t know how mad he will be at me for not telling him right away. The sour taste of guilt yo-yos from the tip of my tongue to the pit of my stomach.

I’m at the door, it’s still locked, and I pull the key out of my purse—as I have been more and more. I push it open, giving my usual, “Knock! Knock!” as I walk in, kick off my shoes, and hang my jacket on the hook. It’s just after nine, but the house is dark. She’s still sleeping, no doubt worn out from her later than usual birthday dinner.

I walk down the hall, reaching in my bag for the papers I’d printed, seeing I forgot the file on the passenger seat of my van. I pause, debate turning around, but decide to get them after breakfast.

“Morning, Veda!” I call, walking again toward her bedroom.

I knock gently, pushing open her door. “Hey, sleepyhead. Not that you care, but I printed out so—”

I freeze, unsaid words disappearing in my mouth, stepping fully into her bedroom.

She’s in bed, sleeping.

Still.

Toostill.

My heart slams against my chest. My throat.

“No!” I yell, dropping my purse and hurrying to the bed, putting the back of my hand on her forehead. Then cheek. Her skin is cold. Ice.

My hands on her shoulders, I shake her gently.

“Veda,” I say, struggling to get her name out of my mouth. “Veda!” I repeat louder—a shout—to be sure I’ve actually said it.

I shake harder—nothing.

I fumble my trembling hands across her neck to find a pulse—none.

Hand over her mouth, she’s not breathing.

Adrenaline and desperation propel me onto the bed, kneeling over her, interlacing my fingers and finding the point in the middle of her chest I’ve been trained to with the heel of my hand. Elbows locked, I start compressions. Driving into her chest, fast and hard.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

“Veda!” I cry, winded as I push into her chest quickly, changing nothing, repeating the motions anyway. When droplets of water land on the backs of my hands, I realize I’m crying. “Dammit, Veda. No!” I choke out.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

Twenty-one.

Twenty-two.

I keep compressing, changing nothing. Crying more with every pump of my fists into her chest.

Her normally tidy hair is splayed across the pillow wildly as I work in frantic desperation to bring her back.