A doctor using the past tense.
I remember staring at him without understanding.
Then I understood.
Our daughter was dead.
One of the strangest things about grief is what the mind chooses to preserve.
I barely remember leaving the hospital.
I barely remember telling Lily.
But I remember opening my purse two days later and finding two juice boxes inside.
Apple.
Grape.
I had packed them that morning for the girls.
I sat on the kitchen floor holding both boxes and sobbing because I could not remember which flavor Emily had asked for.
That felt unforgivable.
My child had died, and I couldn’t remember which juice she liked that morning.
The funeral came and went in a blur.
People brought casseroles.
Flowers filled our living room.
Neighbors said things like, “Let us know if you need anything.”
I didn’t know what I needed.
I needed Emily.
Everything else felt meaningless.
Through those first days, I assumed Carl and I would survive because we had no other choice.
I believed grief might destroy parts of us, but surely we would hold on to each other through the destruction.
Then one evening, I found him standing in the kitchen.
He looked exhausted.
