“It’s not about her,” I always replied. “It’s about Emily.”
I didn’t realize then that grief, when left untouched for too long, eventually invites truth to break it apart.
Everything shifted on an unremarkable Tuesday.
The bank contacted me—not with a statement, but with a problem. Maggie’s local branch had closed, and they needed updated information to continue processing transfers. I tried calling her landline. Disconnected. I tried the cell phone I’d bought her. Straight to voicemail.
A strange sensation settled into my chest—not panic, but something colder. A quiet warning.
I realized I hadn’t truly spoken to her in months. Just short thank-you messages.
I checked my calendar. I had unused vacation days. My car keys sat on the table.
“Why not?” I thought. “I’ll go see her. Fix the bank issue in person. Make sure she’s okay. Maybe even visit the places Emily grew up. Maybe that’ll finally help me let go.”
I had no idea I was driving toward a truth that would shatter everything I believed.