I can never forget that phone call. It came on a Tuesday afternoon in May. I Sitting in my cubicle, busy writing an email to a client, the phone rang three times before I picked up the receiver. I remember that I felt annoyed at the disruption and only answered the call because the phone's display showed it to be an outside call.

"Hello?"

"I am at the hospital. Grace is hurt. Come now."

My wife sounded frantic, panicked. She hung up the call after her words burst through the earpiece. I sat in my cubicle for a second, stunned, unsure of what I had just heard. I looked back at the computer monitor, the draft of my important email staring back at me, until a few moments ago, the most important thing in the world to me.

I leaped up from my cubicle and immediately went and told my boss that I had a family emergency. He nodded and let me leave for the hospital, a suspicious look on his fat face. I headed out of the building, quickly made it to my car and peeled out of the parking lot on my way to the hospital, anxious and full of dread.

With such an incomplete report from my wife, I had no expectations of what to expect. I had to concentrate on not getting into an accident and making things worse, but the twenty minute drive to the hospital ate at me. I started to sweat at stoplights and cursed under my breath as I weaved in and out of the slower drivers. I pulled into the parking lot at the hospital and ran to the emergency room. Bursting through the entrance, I spotted Annabelle in the seating area.

Annabelle, my lovely wife of four years, was holding herself, slumped in the chair. She stared at the floor, a wide expression of shock on her face.

"It's my fault," Annabelle said as I approached her. She never lifted her gaze from the floor, but spoke slowly. "It's my fault."

Annabelle had nothing else to say, so I set out to find a doctor or nurse. After a few minutes and some cursing, I met with a doctor.

The doctor, a man used to death and tragedy, repeated his stale lines about how tragic this was and how sorry he was. My baby died before I reached the hospital. I now had the impossible task of dealing with the worst day in my life.

The doctor told me that Grace, our three-month old child, had died from a broken neck. The mother, Annabelle, had arrived with the infant and had told the medical staff that she had been carrying Grace and had tripped over a carpet or a toy or her feet and had dropped Grace. The child had fallen just a few feet, but it had been far enough.

"The child was likely dead the moment it hit the ground. From what your wife told us, she immediately took the child and came right here. But there was nothing we could do. I'm sorry."

We, Annabelle and I, spent the rest of the afternoon in the hospital's emergency room waiting area. I never saw my child again. I sat next to Annabelle, stunned. I had no tears to shed, no cries of anguish to loose. Annabelle, catatonic and inconsolable, sat next to me, holding herself, staring at the dirty brown carpet.

The rest of the day is not a blur, but rather a slow grind of bureaucracy and minutia. We talked to the medical staff and made arrangements for the release of the body after the coroner pronounced the cause of death. We met with numerous hospital officials about various topics. Annabelle repeated the same story - she tripped, the baby fell. Everyone wanted to believe the nice women, but rules had to be followed.

The police and the child welfare services briefly investigated Grace's death, but in the end no legal action was taken against Annabelle. It had been an accident and a baby had died and everyone else moved on.

We, Annabelle and I, broke down that night. The house, strewn with toys and baby paraphernalia, stood empty and quiet when we returned from the hospital late in the evening. Annabelle walked into the house and stood in the living room and pointed.

"There. I dropped her there," Annabelle said. We found a toy block, the edge of a throw rug and a low table in the immediate area. We held each other and sobbed mightily until Annabelle ran screaming to the bedroom. "I did it! It's my fault!"

I made the phone calls. I called my office and left my boss a voicemail. I called my parents, then my in-laws.

Our parents, Grace's grandparents, took the news of the loss of the their only grandchild especially hard. My parents stayed silent, mourning in private, while showing public support. During the first phone call, my Dad had to take the phone from my Mother and he could barely speak. Annabelle's parents emoted briefly and then tried to get everyone back on the positive side of life. You're young, they said. You can have another baby. This isn't the end of the world.

The funeral is a private memory. We buried Grace in a tiny little coffin in a cemetery. Many friends and family attended. Annabelle, still in shock and full of guilt, said nothing, silently accepting the condolences offered. I cried, openly and somewhat proudly. My baby girl, the second true love of my live, rested forever in a tiny little box that seemed too small to be anything real. It held my little girl and the cemetery workers seemed especially sad to bury such a young child.

A day after the funeral, Annabelle tore through the house, removing any traces of Grace. Clothes, toys, furniture, it all left the house, thrown out. I watched as Annabelle's manic fury and desperation to repent for the loss of her daughter drove Annabelle. We slept in different rooms. Annabelle could not stand the sight of me, thinking that I blamed her for the loss of our child. I did blame her, but I also accepted that it had been an accident. We spoke very few words to one another over the following days and weeks.

Annabelle refused counseling. She decided to go back to work, to get back to a previous routine. I acquiesced to her wishes, hoping that the slow spiral Annabelle had been in since Grace's death would be reversed. And yet, even though Annabelle swore she would do nothing foolish, I lived in dread to find Annabelle alone.

Our life could never be the same. I knew that and Annabelle knew it, but Annabelle wanted to start over. Go back to the way our life together had been before Grace had been born. We both knew the folly of such dreams, but again, I acquiesced. Anything to keep Annabelle stable and focused.

Friends and family lent support and aid through the time after Grace's death. Annabelle would quietly tell those that proffered unsolicited help that we would prefer to remain private with our grief. In truth, Annabelle didn't want to face all the unspoken accusations that she fantasized people making about her. Annabelle fancied herself the worst mother ever. No one could convince her differently, including me.

Privately, I knew and saw that Annabelle had only one goal - to be with Grace. Even though Annabelle heard the words from me often, she and I both knew that Annabelle held all the blame in the death of our daughter. I did convince Annabelle that I believed her story - it had been an accident. Other than that, I stayed quiet and dealt with my feelings and emotions. Annabelle and I lived in stark silence, rarely speaking at night, sleeping in different rooms, not even eating together.

A few months after Grace's death, Annabelle died in a traffic accident. She was travelling home from her job and had tried to beat a yellow light at an intersection. According to the witnesses and police, another driver tried to get a head start on the green light that he anticipated and took off into the intersection. The other driver had mistimed his start and crashed into Annabelle. The other car smashed directly into the driver's side, crunching Annabelle with the impact of the accident. Even though she had been cocooned by air bags and restrained by her seat belt, Annabelle died before the paramedics could reach her.

The police called and told me that my wife had been in accident and that the paramedics had transported her to the hospital. I made my way back to the hospital, this time sure of the outcome. It came as no surprise to me when the doctor told me that they had tried to save her, but Annabelle had passed away.

I knew different. The injuries, while serious, should not have killed her. Annabelle had no will to live. She wanted to die, to find her child and be with Grace. Annabelle would never dream of suicide, but she lost the will to live. I can imagine the joy Annabelle may have felt when the other car struck her, the joy of being able to expire and be released. Even though my words of consolation to Annabelle were sincere, she never accepted them. It could have happened to me, I would try to say, but Annabelle couldn't and wouldn't stand to listen to any excuse offered on her behalf. Annabelle felt guilty and she wanted to pay for her crime.

I did my best to absolve the other driver of responsibility. It had been an accident. Nothing malicious, just an unfortunate series of events that had relieved Annabelle of her pain and guilt. The police filed some charges against the man, but nothing too serious. The other driver's insurance company floated a settlement, which I accepted. I never retained counsel int he matter. I would not profit from Annabelle's death. I would not blame anyone for Annabelle's death.

Annabelle's parents grieved terribly at the news of their daughter's passing. Her mother wailed and shrieked over the phone when I informed them. Her father took over the call, but his words came in amidst his grief. He blubbered and sobbed, unable to communicate. I shared tears with them then, a grieving husband, his life shattered by consecutive losses. I wanted to share with my in-laws my thoughts and suspicions about their daughter, but I held back. It could serve no point and the faster all this fell behind me, the better, I thought.

Annabelle's parents and I fought over where to bury her. I insisted, and eventually convinced them, to bury Annabelle with Grace. Her parents, who lived several states away, wanted their daughter closer to home, but eventually agreed, knowing that Annabelle belonged with her daughter. The funeral devastated me - more so for seeing Grace's plot than burying Annabelle.

My wife killed my daughter and then killed herself over the guilt. That is the reality of the situation and I live every day with that knowledge.