I read those words three times because my brain simply refused to accept them in that cruel order. My husband and child were dead, but to them, it was just a depressing errand they had managed to avoid. I set the phone down very carefully on the table because my hands had started to shake with a cold, terrifying rage.
Part 2
A week after the funeral, I started packing because I needed a task large enough to keep the grief from swallowing me. The house had become unbearable in fragments, like a stray crayon on the floor or the half used bottle of bubblegum toothpaste in the bathroom. Terrence’s running shoes were still by the garage door, dusted with the dry earth from his favorite trail.
I started in the living room with cardboard boxes and packing tape, trying to use the same focus I applied to military briefings. When I picked up Mia’s one eyed teddy bear, the whole plan fell apart because it still smelled faintly like lavender detergent. Terrence had repaired that bear badly one Sunday afternoon while Mia sat on the kitchen counter supervising him.