People repeated the same consolations over and over.
“She’s not suffering anymore.”
“She was incredibly strong.”
“Time will help. You’ll be okay.”
Time didn’t help. It only made the quiet heavier.
Three months after the funeral, my father asked Robert and me to come by.
“Just to talk,” he said on the phone, his tone unusually cautious.
When we stepped into the living room, nothing had changed. Mom’s coat still hung by the door. Her slippers were tucked beneath the couch. The funeral flowers were gone, but the emptiness they left behind felt permanent.
My aunt Laura was sitting beside my father—Mom’s younger sister. She looked tense, her hands clasped tightly, knees pressed together, eyes red as if she’d cried earlier, though not recently.
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