It’s been almost 51 years since I lost my husband Dave. I still remember coming home that day, March 30, 1970. I noticed his car still there; I was glad he stayed home instead of going to work. He was supposed to start working second shift that evening. Before he was working third shift, which he liked because it gave us time to be together. I got home from work at about 5 p.m., so we had time before he left for work.
That Monday morning, when he walked me out to my car, I asked him if he wanted me to stay with him. He said no and gave me a hug and a kiss.
When I opened our apartment door and said, “Hey, I’m home; where are you?” there was no answer. Sometimes we would kid each other and play hide and find me. One of places would be the bathroom. One time I discovered that I could use a long hair clip to open the door. So I did, and laughing as I did, I said, “You know I can open the door.”
So I did. Only to find him in the tub where he had shot himself.