In the lull that followed, I replayed everything. If I had stayed with Mom another three months, another six, a year, would anything have changed here? The bottles would still pile up. The strangers would still laugh on my couch.
He would still tell me he was “managing the house,” like it was a noble sacrifice. I felt the truth settle in my chest like a stone. He hadn’t been lost without me. He had been free of me.
I called a locksmith in the morning. The click of the new deadbolt sounded like closure.
Days turned into weeks. I kept busy with chores, paperwork, and the boring, heavy tasks grief hands out. When the house felt too large, I took long walks. I learned the names of the neighbors’ dogs.
I made soup the way Mom taught me, with thyme and a squeeze of lemon, and ate it at the table with her photo nearby. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I played a silly sitcom just to hear people talk.
Then I booked a grief counseling session. The therapist, Dr. Mira, looked about 50 with kind eyes and a cardigan that made her office feel like a living room. She asked about Mom, about the diagnosis, about the slow days, and about the last day. She listened, really listened, and handed me tissues only when I reached for them.
“Tell me about Evan,” she said gently.
I told her about the calls, the excuses, and the parties. “I keep wondering if I overreacted,” I admitted. “Everyone says he was grieving, too.”
She nodded. “Maybe he was. Grief makes people reach for easy relief. But grief also shows you character. How someone behaves when the lights are off matters more than how they talk when the lights are on.”
I sat with that. “I wanted a partner.”
“You still do,” she said. “And you deserve one.”
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