The day everything started to fall apart for real did not begin with a twist or a shock. It began with silence.
I was on my knees at my daughter’s grave, one hand resting on the cool stone, the other clenching a tiny silver locket so hard the edge dug into my palm. The cemetery in Burlington was as still as it always was at dusk. Trees moved just enough to stir the leaves but not enough to disturb the quiet.
“Marcus,” she whispered into my ear, her voice soft but firm. “You have to let her go. You can’t live like this forever.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The idea of “letting go” felt like being asked to step off a cliff.
She stayed there another moment, then gently tried to take the locket from my hand. I pulled it back without thinking.
“Not yet,” I managed.
She sighed, kissed the side of my head, and whispered, “I just want you to heal.”
Everyone did. At least that’s what they said.
By the time I got home, I believed them.
What I didn’t know yet was that grief was not the only thing weighing me down.
That night I went straight to my study, the way I did every evening. I left most of the house in darkness and clicked on only the brass desk lamp. Moonlight leaked in through the balcony doors, silvering the floor.
In one hand I still held the locket I’d nearly left on the grave. In the other, I apparently held a glass of water.
I only realized that when my fingers gave out and the tumbler slid from my hand, hitting the hardwood and shattering in a bright spray of glass.
I stared at the mess, unable to move.
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