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.
