I was born because of someone’s untimely death. My mother’s grandfather had been engaged to a woman that he was madly in love with, but she died from an illness. Alone and in grief, he married his fiancé’s elder sister instead. Their situation was convenient: he prevented her from becoming a spinster and she prevented him from taking his own life. When he died, many years later, a picture of his first, lost fiancé was found hidden in his pocket. He had never gone a day without it. I feel for these lovers, but owe my existence to their tragedy.