It has now been six years since my husband Jamie died. And while each February 4th has been different, one thing remains the same: My mind and body automatically recall the timeline of that fateful morning.

Depending on when I wake up, I think of what had already passed—the kiss goodbye, the coffee I drank while waiting along the race course, the pleasant conversation with friends—and what was still to come.

February 4th fell on a Saturday this year, the same day of the week that Jamie died. I got out of bed not long after 8:00, groggy but grateful to get a little extra sleep on a hard day. I shuffled into the living room, where my two-year-old was eating breakfast and watching Peppa Pig.