While my husband was busy cooking dinner, my phone lit up on the counter with a single message from my sister:

I can’t go through with it.

For a moment, I just stared, as if rereading it enough times could make it mean something else. Garlic and butter sizzled through the kitchen. The pan hissed steadily. My husband, Ryan, stood at the stove wearing an apron, humming to himself, completely oblivious to the way my entire body suddenly chilled.