[This was an appalling way to tell someone happy birthday, he thinks. By dumping his problems on them. At least he'd given her something she truly did like first.

He has to look away after a moment, though he nods. The idea of being like this for years on end is almost suffocating. It's why he hasn't tried to look to the future - he doesn't know what can lie there except this great emptiness that's been punched through his soul. Digging a nail into the counter, he speaks again, words a little rocky.]

It's been three months, since my wife and daughter were killed. I don't know that I can live up to what I was with them.