It was January 16, 1917, and at 8:47 AM my son, Jack Smith, had just been born. He had a thin layer of very fine brown hair, and deep blue eyes, just like me. My name is John Smith, I was 27 years old and I am a wood carver. My wife’s name is Elizabeth Smith, and she was a 24 year old stay at home mom. We had been trying to have a child for almost a year, and God had finally blessed us with this beautiful baby boy.

We checked out of the hospital two days later, Elizabeth and I were really excited to take our new son home and get settled in as a new and complete family. We live in Boston, Massachusetts, in a small house with a bright red door and a blue garage door. In our garage we have a black Ford that I use to get to and from work. Once we got home, we took Jack straight to his room and sat there, taking turns holding him and discussing how the next few years would be, or how we at least hope they will be. We ideally want to stay in the same home for the duration of our son’s life while he is still living with us. We want him to follow in my career path and be a wood carver, because it earns a good enough salary to survive.

A few years passed and Jack was 4 years old. Elizabeth and I were having marriage problems though. We weren’t interested in each other as much as we used to be, and we were only happy when we were apart from each other, or just with our son. Jack was too young to understand all of our problems then, and I hoped he never found out that his mother and I were having problems with our marriage. One day Elizabeth gave me broccoli with my dinner, and I’m pretty sure she did that just to be mean, because she knew that the only food I absolutely hated was broccoli. I would usually think that she had just forgotten, but this she definitely had done on purpose.

Jack was the only thing that kept me going in this world. His mother and I were drifting apart and were not likely going to drift back. I don’t know what happened that made us stop loving each other, but it happened when Jack was about two years old. It started as a small fight over whether he could go with me on a business trip for three days or stay at home with his mother. After that fight, we started having more and more fights, and they got progressively worse and worse.

Jack was ten years old, and Elizabeth and I were not making positive progress in our relationship. We had almost totally stopped talking to one another. I don’t know her reasons still, but I had a really good reason to not want to speak with her at all. One day I decided to go pick up some cookies for work, and I saw my wife there shopping for our house, or so I thought. I didn’t say hi or anything, but I did look back and forth from her to what I was doing and then back to her again, and I had looked up and saw her kissing another man. I looked down and then back up again in disbelief. All I could think was, “That can’t be my wife. I know we have been having problems, but she wouldn’t do this to me.” That happened four days ago, and I have caught her doing this on three separate occasions with the same man. I didn’t mention anything about it because I was to angry to even look in her direction, let alone speak to her. I also didn’t say anything to her in fear of Jack overhearing any sensitive information.

It was January 16, 1929, Jacks 12th birthday, and his mother and I had a few meetings with a divorce attorney within the prior three weeks. We were going to get divorced two months from then, but we didn’t want to ruin Jack’s birthday, so we had decided to ignore our problems for the day so that Jack could enjoy his last birthday with parents that were still married. We all went out to a local burger place to get dinner before going out to the city to buy Jack anything he saw and wanted. I had ordered a burger, as did Jack, and Elizabeth ordered only a coffee. We seemed to be getting along fine until the end of dinner rolled around. I had almost finished my burger, but the next bite I took got stuck in the back of my throat and I had started to choke on it. My wife had realized that if she had acted like she didn’t know what to do to save me and let me die, then she wouldn’t have to explain the divorce to Jack and then also get all of the money that I had saved in the bank.

Later that year, my funeral service had taken place, and of course my wife did not attend. Instead she was at a wedding. Her wedding. Getting married to the guy who she had been cheating on me with. Jack had run away from home and came to my funeral and later in life had followed in my career footsteps and continued my work. I hated my wife, and if it weren’t for Jack, I wouldn’t have felt bad for dying.