Across the hall from my office was my boy D. D and I were platonic friends; he wasn’t my type at all — and vice versa. I

gular “datathons,” where throngs of volunteers work alongside members of the homeless community (who are paid for their time) to verify and update the database of services. When I attended an in-person datathon in pre-Covid-19 times, I was struck by how structured and rigorous the exercise was — an indication of its Silicon Valley pedigree. Yet there was no attempt made to paper over the very real struggles of many of the participants; when asked to go around and describe something good that happened that week as a kind of opening icebreaker, one homeless man named Garrett said, “Just seeing the sunlight every day.”

He made the choice to kill himself not because he wanted to — if we were financially stable, he would still be here. He didn’t suffer from chronic depression. He sacrificed himself so his family might, in his twisted view on that terrible day, have a chance of a more secure future financially — but a severely diminished one in all the ways that truly matter.

I understood the sliver of the prism through which my husband viewed our lives and future, but I remain perplexed by his inability to recognize how distorted his theory became as it passed through this spectrum.

Every step I took up our driveway made my legs quake, knowing, as I got closer to our front door, that I was about to cross a line separating “before” and “after,” and nothing would ever be the same.

I cannot envision the pain he was in, the courage he was trying to muster, the possible debate he was having with himself, knowing what a horrific idea this was, the damage it would inflict on all of us — but believing without his life insurance policy, our lives were doomed. He thought he ran out of road, which is nonsense.

While he potentially fixed our financial problem, he created a million more that splintered off in bouncing, inaccurate, agonizing directions that were infinitely harder, if not impossible, to solve.

From The Practice: Shipping Creative Work by Seth Godin, published by Portfolio, an imprint of the Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2020 by Do You Zoom Inc.

They are this way because they had a dad who loved them so very much, who spent time with them, had conversations with them, valued their opinions. He coached all three of their hockey teams, spent years making memories together with them on the drive to and from chilly rinks.

Back in the 1990s and early 2000s, I worked at a music magazine. I was in my twenties and having a blast. I tagged along while Redman and Method Man filmed How High. I watched Common work on Like Water for Chocolate at the legendary Electric Lady Studios in NYC. I interviewed every member of Wu-Tang Clan at a photoshoot. It was the good ol’ days.

As dumb as it sounds, he had just received a new batch of plastic cups for his iced coffee. We’d talked about either a beach day or an amusement park for the Fourth of July and had two family vacations planned. This may have been his fallback plan, but I believe its implementation was set into action after the movie that night.

Prior, Matt went to the store to buy microwave popcorn for the boys and made each of them specialized milkshakes. In the movie, at the end (spoiler alert), the dad sacrifices himself to keep his kids safe.

But being a staff writer had its challenges. It was competitive and everything moved at breakneck speed. (Nothing like an awards show interrupted by Suge Knight wearing a Dead Man Walking T-shirt with Snoop’s face on it to make you realize work could involve a stampede!)

In his letter to the boys, he wrote, “You will get past this, you will go to college, fall in love and marry and have families of your own. I hope you can forgive me and understand.”

While unemployed, he dropped them off and picked them up from school, went to the grocery store, and cooked dinners. He played video games with them, tossed a football, made huge breakfasts every weekend.

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Across the hall from my office was my boy D. D and I were platonic friends; he wasn’t my type at all — and vice versa. I

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