It was a normal Tuesday. Our daughter Liora couldn’t find her sneakers. The morning was chaos, but familiar. At 9:02 a.m., my wife, Danica, texted, “Want me to grab you a coffee?” I replied, “Sure. Love you.” She never texted back.

By noon, I noticed her silence. By 3:47, two officers knocked on the door. Danica had been in a fatal crash. Wrong place, wrong time.

The days after blurred. Our daughters clung to me. Tali, our oldest, didn’t speak for two days. I was suddenly both parents—struggling through lunches, braids, and bedtime.

Weeks later, I opened Danica’s car. Her coffee still sat in the cupholder. In the seat was an envelope: “Happy early anniversary. I love how you still make me laugh. I’m planning a surprise trip.” She’d booked a cottage.

I took the girls. We laughed, cried, built mud castles, watched stars. On our last night, Liora asked if Mommy could see us. “I think she’s proud,” I said.

Back home, we lived differently—loved louder. I found more trips she’d planned. We hung photos. We kept going.

Danica’s last gift was a reminder: say “I love you” now. Because sometimes the coffee goes cold—but love doesn’t.