Grief does strange things to time. The days after my husband passed blurred together, as if the world had been wrapped in cotton. Sounds were muted. Colors dulled. Even my own thoughts felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. I moved through the house slowly, touching familiar objects, whispering his name into rooms that no longer answered back.
We had shared that home for twelve years. Twelve ordinary, beautiful years filled with morning coffee at the same kitchen table, quiet evenings on the couch, and countless small rituals that made up a life. I believed, without question, that I would remain there. He had promised me as much, more than once.
I trusted him. I never imagined how quickly everything could be taken away.
When Grief Turns Cold
The funeral had barely ended when his children arrived, not with tears, but with purpose. They moved through the house as if inventorying it, their voices low and businesslike.
I stood to the side, still numb, trying to understand how mourning could look so different on different people.
His daughter, Melissa, barely looked at me at first. When she did, there was no warmth in her eyes. Only calculation.
She walked from room to room, opening drawers, glancing at walls, already deciding what stayed and what went. Finally, she turned to me, her lips curling into a smile that carried no kindness.
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