I thought the hardest thing I would ever endure was burying my husband. Then, 11 days after the funeral, I uncovered something he had hidden in the garage, and suddenly grief was no longer the only thing waiting for me inside this house.
I discovered my husband’s death was not the random accident everyone claimed it was. His sister helped conceal the reason why.
My husband, Jack, died 11 days ago.
I still hate typing those words. They feel unreal even though I stood there and watched them lower his coffin into the earth.
Since the funeral, I have been surviving through routines because the children still need breakfast, clean socks, and help studying spelling words. Then I disappear somewhere private and break apart. The laundry room. The shower. The garage. Anywhere with a lockable door.
The entire house feels frozen in time. His boots remain by the back entrance. His jacket still hangs over the chair. His coffee mug is sitting untouched in the dish rack because I cannot force myself to wash it.
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