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To get even closer to our fans, we even ran late-night live streams straight from our hotel rooms. We also pulled off pop-up secret shows in crowded alleyways and busked on street corners.

I smirked, remembering how we shocked a die-hard follower in Tokyo by jamming with her right on the pavement.

Every city ended with unfiltered red-room acoustic sets where we bared our souls to crammed, sweat-drenched smaller crowds with the energy of stadium enthusiasts.

To say I was exhausted was an understatement.

This holiday couldn’t come soon enough.

I headed to the living room, where two open suitcases sat.

I packed the stack of clothes into one, then stepped back, making sure to tick off all the items on the list on my phone for both Raff and me.

I was a pro at this game, and I’d Marie Kondo’d most of our gear in no time.

Where were Raff’s headphones?

I glanced around and found them resting on the glossy black surface of the baby grand piano, where he’d been practicing his chords earlier.

I strode over to the instrument, lifted the headset, and paused, my gaze falling on the silver-framed photographs scattered across the wood.

They captured a former magical life, a gallery of a beautiful, long-gone past, many of them photographed by Ana as she nurtured her camera skills.

One showed Raff as a tiny newborn wrapped in a blanket, then him at two, three, and four.

Then came the travel shots Ana took of her, Raff, and me laughing against a backdrop of sun-bleached cliffs in Santorini.

Also, the three of us bundled up in heavy coats in the middle of a snowy Central Park, holding ice creams on a Santa Monica boardwalk.

We’d loved traveling and spending time together.

We’d been so happy.

Until we weren’t.

Guilt flared, burning me, even as my eyes landed on the small silver urn tucked behind the photos.

Our baby girl was always with us.

Ana and I each had an identical vessel in our houses, to remember what we lost.

My heart wrenched.

I couldn’t stop thinking about how I let our family dissolve, why I never fought harder for us, and how much tragedy twisted away our joy.

Our anger at the senselessness of our loss and the inability to comfort each other led to a grief-stricken divorce.

But when it came to our son, Ana and I always set aside our acrimony to help Raff thrive after our split.

We enrolled him in counseling to work through his feelings and build resilience.

The therapist gave him the tools to handle our busy schedules and the reality of splitting his time in two homes.

Now, he was a well-adjusted, happy boy.

Aside from a few discipline issues with his teachers and some talking back, Raff was warm, kind, and caring.

He was smart as a whip, too, and doing well in school.