Three months after my mother’s funeral, my father married her sister. I tried to convince myself that grief can drive people to make unimaginable choices. But then my brother showed up late to the wedding, drew me aside, and pressed a letter into my hands—one my mother had never intended for me to see.
I thought nothing could be more painful than watching my mother die. I was wrong.
She battled breast cancer for nearly three years. Near the end, she barely had the strength to sit upright, yet she still worried about whether I was eating properly, whether my brother Robert was staying on top of his bills, and whether Dad remembered to take his blood pressure medication.
After we buried her, the house still carried the scent of antiseptic and her lavender lotion.
People repeated the same consolations over and over.
“She’s not suffering anymore.”
“She was incredibly strong.”
“Time will help. You’ll be okay.”
Time didn’t help. It only made the quiet heavier.
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