I called him at least once a week.

I knew the last few months were Hell for him. He was hurting, badly. He felt like he had

failed at life. I made that call faithfully every week to remind him that he wasn’t a failure.

“Just come home,” I told him. “You can start your life over. That’s not failure. That’s

courage.”

For years, he was always the strong one. He had the wisdom and guidance when we

needed it. Help was never refused; encouragement was always a phone call away and

no question ever went unanswered. But he had lost his father, a marriage, and a job in

short succession. Now he was losing hope. Hard as all of this was, I knew he could rise

above it, make things right, and start taking care of himself. There were plenty of us

ready and waiting to help him do it.

I still have his last text. He was driving and it was late but wanted to let me know he was

okay. Good, I will call him tomorrow night like I always do. But I didn’t. He’ll need some

rest, I thought. It was a tense week for him.

It can wait one more day.

His mother called me the next morning to tell me that he was gone. He took his own life

the night before - the night I was prepared to call him but didn’t. Now I felt like the failure

because I wasn’t there to stop him.

The guilt of that “missed call” was the hardest for me to let go of. I had convinced myself

that somehow I could have prevented his decision and he would still be with us. Instead,

I was being pulled between grief and acrimony. I missed him more than anything but I

was furious; at him for giving up and myself for not calling.

Photo: Kiati Plooks / Edits: Tim Brosius / Models: Alexander Pilon & Brian Gamble / Concept: Andrew Key, Rebecca Ellis, Samantha Trionfo, Tim Brosius