Today I interviewed a guy who, on the way home from a soccer game almost two years ago, hit a patch of black ice. The ensuing crash of his SUV killed his wife and his oldest son. His other children were hurt badly; one was in a coma for a week. He himself had eight fractured ribs, four crushed vertebrae and severe head injuries.

He’s in constant pain, physical and emotional. His insurance is about to run out; he can work only sporadically. He has no idea what he’s going to do.

He told me he wasn’t up to meeting with me today, but we sat on the porch of his beautiful Victorian and ended up talking for an hour. (People always spill their guts with me; they seem to sense an appreciative listener.) He told me all about his dead 11-year-old.

“You know, he thought he was ugly,” he said, amused. “He said his ears were too big and he was too short - all my kids are small. I told him they picked him to play the lead in the school play, a teen hearthrob. ‘Would they pick someone ugly for that?’ I said. “You’re a good-looking guy.”

“You know, his best friend ended up playing the part.”

He told me his wife and son are buried in his backyard. “That’s really nice,” I said. “That must help.”

Yeah, he said. He and his wife had the perfect marriage and they agreed early on that family always came first, he told me. He said he knows he’ll never know happiness again.

“Everyone feels that way, but you will. It just won’t look the same, that’s all,” I said. “And first you have to believe you deserve it, and not drown yourself in being superdad. You’ve been through a trauma, too, you know; you need to be kind to yourself.”

“Well, yeah, I do try to be superdad,” he said.

“You can’t hide behind that forever,” I said. “Right now, it keeps you from falling apart. But the really sad thing is, life goes on and eventually you have to let go of the past. It feels like a betrayal, but life goes on.”

I thanked him for talking to me. I hope he felt a little better for having told his story again.