Eleven days after burying my husband, my mother in law told me that in my own kitchen with the same serenity with which other women order coffee without sugar. She did not knock because she came in with the key she never returned after tending our plants one summer.
Behind her came her youngest son, Spencer, carrying a tape measure and a black notebook. Martha Thorne wore a pearl colored jacket and those expensive earrings that always seemed to foretell misfortune.
She looked at the ceiling and the marble floor before giving a brief smile as if she were already sorting through my belongings in her mind. I was still living in a fog because grief does not just break your heart but also makes you slow and clumsy.
The iced coffee cup trembled in my hands while I noticed Zoey’s little pink cup was still in the dish rack. The scent of her strawberry shampoo still lingered in the air as I looked around the kitchen.
In every corner of that house in Chandler, I saw David leaning against the kitchen island or laughing at some silly joke. He used to steal spoonfuls of peanut butter while swearing he was going to have something healthy for breakfast.