"As you kiss your child goodnight, say to yourself, 'He may be dead in the morning.'"

In the year 169 AD, Annius Verus, the son of Marcus Aurelius, merely seven years of age, fell ill. He was the heir, the hope of the Empire. He had the finest physicians, Galen himself, yet the fever did not care for titles or the needs of Rome. He watched the life fade from a boy who had barely begun to speak his mind. He had lost children before, many of them, but familiarity did not dull the blade of grief. In those hours by his bedside, the trivialities of the court, the wars on the Danube, and the insults of the Senate evaporated. All that remained was the small hand in his.

When he passed, the silence in the palace was deafening. The courtiers expected Marcus to collapse or to rage against the gods. He did neither. He had already performed the exercise Epictetus prescribed. Every night Marcus tucked Annius in, he whispered to his son's own soul that he was on loan. He was not a possession of Marcus Aurelius; he was a possession of Nature. Because Marcus knew his son could leave at any moment, he did not waste the moments that he was there. He did not assume there would be a "tomorrow" to correct a harsh word or a "next year" to show affection.

You might live as if you and your loved ones are immortal. You quarrel over petty grievances like a dirty dish, a forgotten message, or a clumsy mistake. You withhold affection to punish them, assuming you will have decades to make amends. This is arrogance. You are like a person who finds a diamond on the road and assumes they own the mine. You own nothing. Your spouse, your child, your friend: They are leaves on a tree in autumn. A sudden wind, a diagnosis, an accident, and they are gone. If you truly grasped this, you would never again raise your voice in anger over a trifle. You would never part from them without a look of true recognition.

Errors & Corrections

• Don't assume that tragedy is something that happens to "other people" on the news. Accept that you are subject to the same laws of mortality as the beggar and the king.
• Don't believe that thinking about death makes you morbid or depressed. Understand that thinking about death makes you present, urgent, and grateful.
• Don't take your loved ones for granted, assuming they will always be there to absorb your bad moods. Treat every interaction as a potential finality. Behave so that if they died an hour later, you would have no regrets about your last words.

Applications to Modern Life

In the modern era, we are even more distracted than the Romans. We stare at glowing rectangles while our children speak to us. We nod without listening. We text while dining with our spouse. We are physically present but spiritually absent, banking on a future surplus of time that does not exist.

Apply this when you leave your home for work. Pause. Look at the face of the person you are leaving. Realize that cars crash, hearts stop, and violence strikes. If you return, it is a bonus, not a guarantee. When you feel the heat of irritation rising because a family member has been clumsy or annoying, ask yourself: "If I knew they would die tonight, would this matter?" The answer is invariably no. The irritation vanishes, replaced by a tolerance born of perspective. This is not about living in fear; it is about living in reality. It makes you a better parent, a better partner, and a better human being.

Maxims

• We are travelers staying at an inn; do not become attached to the furniture.
• The glass is already broken; enjoy it while it holds wine.
• Never part in anger; the reunion is not promised.

In-depth Concepts

Memento Mori (Remember Death)

This is not a Gothic obsession with skulls, but a practical tool for prioritization. By keeping the limit of life in view, we strip away the non-essential. It acts as a solvent for vanity and a binder for love. It creates urgency.

Philostorgia (Natural Affection)

The Stoics are often accused of being cold, but we value philostorgia—natural affection for family and countrymen. However, this affection must be rational. It must be an affection that enjoys the presence of the beloved without becoming enslaved by the fear of their loss. We love them as mortals, not as idols.

The Loan of Nature

Epictetus teaches that we should never say "I have lost it," but rather "I have returned it."When a child dies, he is returned. When a wife dies, she is returned. To claim otherwise is to accuse Nature of theft for taking back what was hers all along.