The years slipped by, one after another. I grew older, the machines grew louder, and the aches in my joints became constant companions. But I kept showing up. I believed loyalty was a two-way street. Sure, the raises slowed to a trickle, and management got stingier with benefits, but I didn’t waver. My co-workers called me “the rock,” the guy who could be counted on to fill in for anyone, to cover extra shifts, to keep things steady when everyone else was restless.

That’s why what happened recently blindsided me.

It all started with my lunch. Simple as that.

See, Marie has always been particular about what I eat. After her illness, we both decided to live more carefully—less fast food, more home-cooked meals. She’d pack me hearty lunches: stews in thermoses, sandwiches stacked high with meat and fresh vegetables, even her famous chicken and rice when she had the energy. Those meals weren’t just food. They were her way of caring for me, making sure I stayed healthy enough to keep working.