When I walked into my apartment, Jill was there on the couch talking to my other roommate. I took one look at her, outstretched my arms, and gave her the hug I had wanted to give her since 9:45 Thursday morning. We sat in our living room, letting Jill cry and be as sad as she wanted to be. We listened to her and tried to sympathize. I felt my eyes well up with tears a few times while we sat there; I couldn't even imagine how she was feeling. Anne and I bought her sushi and wine, and the three of us ate and talked until we could barely keep our eyes open. I felt better about having Jill stay at our apartment last night rather than letting her go back to the suburbs and stay at her parents' house.

It's weird to think that I will never see Jill's dad again. I knew him for 14 years. He was there when we had sleepovers at Jill's house or when we needed a ride to the movies. Last year he helped us move into our apartment and bought everyone pizza and champagne when we were done. The last time I saw him, in March, he looked like an entirely different person. Gone was the "Uncle Phil" I'd known so long. In his place was a thin, weak, frustrated man. I barely recognized him and I began to understand how this was wearing on Jill.

Part of the reason I think Jill is feeling better than expected is that she didn't want her dad to suffer anymore. She knew he was ready to go and her family needed to let go of the overwhelming sadness that had been hanging over them for 8 months. And while his death is sad, there is a relief that has come over Jill.