Some secrets are buried with the people who keep them. Mine arrived on my doorstep a week after my husband died, and nothing about my life looked the same afterward.
The house had gone quiet in a way I did not know a house could.
One week after we buried Harold, the silence still felt like a stranger sitting across from me at the kitchen table while I nursed a cup of tea that had gone cold.
Sympathy cards sat unopened beside the sugar bowl.
Every envelope felt like another goodbye I was not ready to say.
