The pain of losing Peter still felt fresh, like an open wound that refused to heal. People compare grief to being hit by a truck, but that’s not quite right—a truck would be swift, brutal, then over. Real grief is slower, more insidious. It’s like suffocating while everyone around you keeps breathing normally.
Three weeks had passed since I woke up to find Peter’s body cold beside me. One moment he was there, warm and alive, his arm draped over me as we slept. The next, paramedics were shaking their heads, and my world shattered.
Pulmonary embolism , the doctor said. I remembered Peter rubbing his calf days before, complaining of a dull ache. I’d told him it was probably just a cramp. When I later searched the symptoms online, the truth stared back at me—all the warning signs had been there. If only I’d made him go to the hospital. If only I’d known.
Now I moved through the days like a ghost, barely eating, barely sleeping. I spent hours curled around Peter’s pillow, breathing in the fading scent of him, wondering how I was supposed to keep living without my anchor—the man who had steadied me since we were teenagers.
When my phone buzzed that afternoon, I almost ignored it. But it was Miranda, Peter’s sister.
“Kate, sweetheart, you shouldn’t be alone right now,” she said, her voice dripping with false concern. “Come over. I made tea.”
I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to face anyone. But Miranda was family—this was her loss too. Maybe being with someone who understood would help.
I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on Peter’s old hoodie, the gray one that still carried traces of his cologne. My reflection in the mirror looked hollow—dark circles under my eyes, skin pale and waxy. I barely recognized myself.
Miranda’s house smelled aggressively normal—lemon cleaner and something baking. It made my stomach turn. She ushered me to the couch with a tight smile and pressed a mug of sickly-sweet tea into my hands.
I braced myself for the usual empty platitudes— he’s in a better place, time heals all wounds .
Instead, Miranda leaned forward, her eyes calculating, and asked, “So what are you planning to do with the baby fund?”
The question hit me like a slap. The baby fund—the savings account Peter and I had started when we decided to try for a family. A dream that died with him.
Before I could process, Miranda continued, “Since you won’t be needing it now, I was thinking you could transfer it to the girls’ college accounts. They’re your nieces, after all.”
My mouth went dry. She wasn’t asking. She was telling.
And then, as if that weren’t enough, she slid a neatly handwritten list across the coffee table:
– Tuesday/Thursday: Pick up girls from school
– Help Emma with algebra
– Draw dinosaurs for Lily’s science project
– Bake 3 dozen cookies for PTA fundraiser
“This will give you something to focus on,” Miranda said brightly. “Better than moping around the house all day.”
I stared at the list, my hands shaking. Did she really think I could just… move on? That I could play happy auntie while my heart lay in pieces?
Tears spilled down my cheeks—ugly, gasping sobs that made my whole body shake.
Miranda waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, stop being dramatic. Peter wouldn’t want you to—”
The front door slammed open, cutting her off.
Susan—Peter and Miranda’s mother—stood in the doorway, her face like thunder.
“I heard everything,” she said coldly, her eyes locked on Miranda. “Your windows were open.”
Miranda’s face went slack with shock. “Mom, I was just—”
“Trying to manipulate your brother’s widow out of money while she’s grieving?” Susan’s voice could have frozen hell. “You should be ashamed.”
She turned to me, her expression softening. “Go home, Kate. I’ll deal with this.”
I fled before Miranda could respond, my hands trembling on the steering wheel the whole drive home.
That evening, as I sat in Peter’s favorite chair clutching a cold cup of coffee, my phone buzzed with a text from Miranda:
“Thanks for turning Mom against me. You always were selfish. Hope you’re happy.”
I deleted it without replying.
Peter used to tell me something whenever I worried about people pleasing: “Some folks only love you when you’re useful, Kate. The ones who matter? They love you for you.”
Susan had proven that today. She hadn’t defended me because she wanted something. She’d done it because I was family—because I had been Peter’s, and now, in his absence, I was hers.
The grief still threatened to drown me. But for the first time since Peter died, I didn’t feel quite so alone.