My son-in-law, Daniel, stood beside my wife Margaret and me during the funeral, his face stiff with what looked like grief.
We believed him.
Margaret didn’t survive the loss for long.
The doctors called it heart failure. But I knew what really happened. Some people slowly disappear when grief becomes too heavy. They stop laughing, stop caring, stop getting out of bed.
One morning, six months after Elena’s funeral, Margaret simply didn’t wake up.
After that, my life became very small.
There were only three things left in it: my grocery store, my granddaughter Lily, and the money I sent every January to Daniel.
The store—Harper’s Market—had been in my family since the 1970s. It smelled like fresh bread, ripe fruit, and coffee. People still paid in cash and talked about their lives while I rang up their groceries.
It kept my hands busy when my mind tried to return to memories I could not change.
But Lily kept my heart alive.
She was seven then—thin, energetic, always asking questions. She had Elena’s smile and Margaret’s stubborn streak.
Every two weeks I picked her up and took her for ice cream at City Park. I ordered vanilla. She always chose strawberry.
That afternoon seemed normal at first.