“I hate the beach house without him,” she whispered.
My anger shifted.
Not vanished.
Shifted.
“Then why do you keep going?”
“Because the kids love it. Because Douglas loves it. Because Dad loved it. Because I thought if we kept doing everything the same, eventually it would feel the same.”
“It won’t.”
“I know that now.”
She wiped beneath one eye.
“Every time you tell a story about him, I feel like I’m back at the hospital.”
I reached across the table, then stopped myself.
Old instinct.
Fix it.
Instead I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you lost more.”
“Grief isn’t a competition.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She looked at me.
“Maybe not.”
We sat quietly.
Then she said something I would remember for a long time.
“Yesterday morning, I wasn’t trying to leave you out because I don’t love you. I was trying to leave out the part of the weekend that reminded me everything changed.”
