When you lose someone, time behaves strangely.
Days blur together until everything feels like one long morning where you wake up wishing reality had changed.
It’s been three months since my husband’s funeral, yet sometimes I still expect to see his boots by the door. I still pour two cups of coffee, and every night I check the front lock three times because that’s what he always did.
This is what grief looks like: pressed dresses and shoes with sticky bows, and a little girl who keeps her hope folded small and careful, like the pink socks she insists on wearing for every special occasion.
“Katie, do you need help?” I called from the hallway. She didn’t answer right away.
When I peeked into her room, I found her sitting on the bed, gazing at her reflection in the closet mirror. She wore the dress Keith chose last spring—the one she called her “twirl dress.”
