The police officer took my statement and went over a few things. He was gentle with the questioning and made sure I had time to process. The questions were simple and I don’t remember most of it now. I remember showing him my phone, the simple displayed texts belied the gravity of their message. My husband had sent a suicide note via text while I slept.

“Had he ever mentioned wanting to take his life before?” the officer asked.

I barely paused to consider the question before shaking my head. No.

Later that evening, as my mind sifted through jumbled thoughts and emotions, I realized I had lied. Not intentionally, of course. But he had mentioned suicide. Years ago. And only once.

*

I walked into our bedroom and found my husband sitting on the edge of the bed. His brow was furrowed like he was deep in thought.

I paused a moment and drank in the scene.

“You okay?” I asked.

He looked up at me, concentration broken. He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I was just thinking,” he said, “that sometimes I feel like killing myself.”

The statement was so nonchalant I almost didn’t understand it.

I must have reacted because he shook his head and stood up. He closed the space between us and kissed me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I wouldn’t actually kill myself. I have you and our son. I wouldn’t leave you.”

I watched him leave the room and then life continued. He’d never mention suicide again. I’d never ask if he ever revisited the idea of killing himself. I’d actually never think of him as suicidal.

*

I obsessed over that moment when it was too late to intervene or do anything.

What other signs had I missed? What other ways had I failed him?

Why are we so afraid to ask if someone is suicidal?

If I’ve learned anything, it’s to ask. The question is taboo but so important.

“Have you ever thought of killing yourself?”