I stood in the doorway, gripping the frame hard enough to cramp my fingers, while strangers begged my husband to come back.
He did not.
After the funeral, my children sat around me in the living room and said the right things.
Laura was the oldest, so she took my hand like she was signing a contract with grief.
“We’ll get through this together, Mom,” she promised.
Michael sat forward with his elbows on his knees.
“You’re not going to be alone,” he said.
Fiona, my youngest, cried against my shoulder and whispered, “We’ll take care of you.”
I believed them.
Of course I did.
A mother believes her children longer than the evidence allows.
For a while, they acted like they meant it.
Laura brought casseroles in glass dishes with blue lids.
Michael mowed the lawn without being asked.
Fiona came over with the children, and the house filled with noise again for a few hours at a time.
