"Nana and Pa are babysitting at our house (and the kids acted like they were rock stars when the got there) and we are off to dinner with the siblings which doesn't happen nearly as often as it should."

 Your life was not the stuff made for TV movies were made of, but your death was.  You married your college sweetheart on Saturday after a week of torrential rain.  The skies clearing and making way for a million stars as we made our way into the reception.  You bought a condo, and told me you were pregnant with your daughter at the company Christmas party.  Only confessing when you pushed the waiter to know if their were anchovies in the Ceaser Salad and nursing a ginger ale instead of your usual Cape Codder.  You brought her to the company picnic that summer, only a few weeks old and we sat together marveling at her while everyone around us ate lobster.

A few years later we were pregnant at the same time.  Me with my first and you with twins.  You came to visit when I bought my house, laughing at my lack of furniture.  You happily worked as the Office Manager while I fought to climb a ladder that was never achievable.  You were content and happy in your life while I always wanted something more.

You don't ever forget the feeling in your stomach when you get the call that someone you love is gone.  Made worse when it is sudden and violent.  When they are young.  Your life was not the stuff made for TV movies are made of.  But it was a good life. Cut short. By your college sweetheart that you married the night the rain stopped.