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But I knew that for the Social Security Administration, this recitation would not be proof enough that my wife was dead. I reluctantly slid the document across the desk and sunk deeper into my chair.

“Did the marriage end in death?” she asked, still reading from her script, still not looking at me.

What kind of question is that? What the fuck do you think? I wanted to scream, but what came out of my mouth was far less eloquent: “Technically, yes, but I’m still wearing our rings, so no. Well, yes. Um, never mind.” Jesus.

Even though Liz was dead, I really did still consider myself married, but to this woman, there was no room on the paperwork for any explanation. All she wanted was a simple yes or no so she could check the correct box on the form in front of her. She finally glanced up, making eye contact for the first time since I had sat down.

But all she did was look at me. I felt like I was back in elementary school, taking part in a playground staring contest. I lost.

“Yes. The marriage ended with her death.”

I overthought and had a hard time with the rest of her questions, but ultimately answered in the way she wanted. When the interview ended, she informed me that we’d be getting just under $1,800 per month to be used to provide for Madeline. After the paltry $255 death benefit, this amount made me feel as though we’d just won the lottery. Mostly, I was thrilled that Madeline wouldn’t have to join the workforce just yet, and that we might be able to stay in our house longer than I’d anticipated.

With the formal interview over, the woman became almost human and began making small talk with me. I would have obliged her, but at that moment, I smelled something awful. While she was still talking, I grabbed Madeline’s car seat and stood up.

“I have to get going. My daughter just shit herself.”

The woman looked flustered, obviously unprepared for my crassness. If only she could have read my mind during her interview, she would have known just how unrefined I really was. Pointing to her right, she said, “Uh, you can use that conference room to change her.”

“Thanks.”

I walked into the conference room, closed the door behind me, and pulled out the changing pad that matched the diaper bag now permanently attached to my shoulder. For the first time since bringing her home from the hospital, I changed Madeline’s diaper in public, right there on the middle of the table. As I dropped the diaper in the trash can and walked out, I smiled at the thought of someone else entering this room and wondering where the shit smell was coming from. Hilarious—especially after the interview I had just endured.

Chapter 14

sometimes it feels like

yesterday.

other times it feels

like a lifetime ago.

i’m having a hard time

remembering her voice,

but i find myself

saying things that

liz

would have said if

she

were standing next to me,

looking at our child.

like cute.

and pretty.

The people I encountered in public had no clue what I was going through. It’s not that I expected them to—​obviously strangers don’t generally know what’s going on in another stranger’s world—but my entire life had fallen apart, and it felt crazy to see everyone around me continuing on as if nothing at all had happened. Drivers honked and gave me the finger when I hesitated at a green light because I was thinking about the last time I’d driven down Fairfax Avenue with Liz. Baristas turned up the snark when I took too long deciding between Earl Grey and Darjeeling because I was lost in a memory of drinking tea while we watched the sun rise over the Himalayas.

Sometimes, though, strangers could be the greatest source of comfort. I went to my bank to make a deposit, and as I approached the bulletproof glass that cascaded from the ceiling to the counter, I couldn’t help but think about all the times I had visited Liz at her college summer job as a teller in Minneapolis. I did my best to hold back the tears, but when I was