Grief doesn’t hit you like a truck. That would be too quick, too clean. No, grief is like slowly sinking underwater while the rest of the world keeps breathing like nothing happened.
Three weeks ago, I fell asleep with my husband Peter’s arm around me and his warm breath on my neck. The next morning, he was cold. Gone. Just like that.
I screamed as the paramedics tried to bring him back. They couldn’t.
Later, the doctor said, “Pulmonary embolism.”
A clot. That was it. I remembered Peter had mentioned his calf hurting a couple of days earlier. I thought it was just sore muscles. But when I Googled deep vein thrombosis after the funeral, all the signs were there. I should’ve known. I should’ve done something. If I had made him see a doctor, would he still be here?
My world didn’t just break. It shattered completely.
I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t even move. I spent my days curled in bed, holding Peter’s pillow, trying to remember how to breathe. He’d been my everything since I was seventeen—my home, my anchor. Without him, I was floating in space, lost.
That afternoon, my phone buzzed. It was Peter’s sister, Miranda.
Her voice was soft, almost gentle. “Kate? Honey, you shouldn’t be alone right now. Come over. I made tea.”
I didn’t feel ready to see anyone. But Miranda was family. She had lost Peter too. Maybe crying together would help.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
I put on leggings and Peter’s gray hoodie—the one that still smelled like his cologne and drowned me in fabric. When I passed the mirror, I barely recognized myself. Pale. Hollow. Like a ghost. The pain in my chest came rushing back, and fresh tears blurred my vision. I wanted so badly to follow Peter wherever he’d gone.
Then Miranda texted again. “Still coming?”
I wiped my face, sent her a quick “on my way,” and forced myself outside.
When Miranda opened the door, she hugged me, but it felt stiff. The house smelled like lemon cleaner and meatloaf. Normal smells. Everyday smells. They made my chest hurt more.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said, leading me to the living room. “Sit. The tea’s still hot.”
I sat down. The tea was way too sweet, but it calmed the burning in my throat. Miranda sat across from me and stared like she had something important to say. I braced myself for another cliche: “He’s in a better place” or “Everything happens for a reason.”
But instead, she leaned in and said something that made my blood go cold.
“What are you doing with the baby fund?”
I froze. “What?”
“Peter’s gone now, so you won’t be having kids together,” she said, completely calm. “I have two girls, and you’ve always said how much you love them. Why won’t you just give the money to us? We could use it for their college funds.”
I stared at her, the mug halfway to my mouth. Was she serious?
Peter and I had started that account three years ago. It was for our future baby—hospital bills, diapers, everything. I hadn’t even thought about it since he died. But clearly, Miranda had.
“And actually,” she kept going, “you should help me with the girls this week. It’ll distract you from all this.”
Before I could reply, she slid a handwritten list across the table:
- Pick up kids from school on Tuesday and Thursday
- Help Emma with her math homework
- Draw pictures for Lily’s art project
- Bake cookies for the school fundraiser
“Better than just sitting around crying, right?” she said brightly, like she was offering me some amazing gift.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
I couldn’t even get out of bed most days. I couldn’t remember to eat, or sleep, or live without thinking of Peter every second. And she wanted me to be her babysitter? Her personal chef? Her kids’ tutor?
And on top of that, she wanted Peter’s and my baby fund?
“Miranda, I don’t think—” My voice broke, and the tears came fast. Not the silent, graceful kind. No, these were the ugly sobs that shook my whole body.
Miranda waved her hand like I was being dramatic. “Oh, come on. We don’t need to dwell on him. You need to move forward, Kate, and this is how you do it.”
Move forward?
Peter had just died. I could still feel the weight of his arm around me at night. I still saw him in every corner of our home. And she was asking me to bake cookies?
Before I could speak again, there was a knock at the door.
Miranda rolled her eyes. “Probably another delivery guy who can’t read house numbers.” She stood up and muttered about how no one could do anything right anymore.
But when she opened the door, it wasn’t a delivery guy.
It was Peter’s mom—Susan.
She walked in with fire in her eyes. “Miranda, you will never see a dime of that money.”
Miranda’s jaw dropped. “Mom? What are you—”
Susan pointed to the window behind me. “I was walking by. Your front windows are open. I heard everything.”
She marched over to her daughter, looking furious.
“You may be my daughter, but what you just did was disgusting. You’ve used me for years to babysit your kids. And now you’re trying to use Kate—who just lost her husband—for money and free childcare? Shame on you.”
Miranda’s face turned red. “What? Mom, I was just trying to help!”
“No,” Susan said coldly. “You were helping yourself. And I’m done. Don’t ask Kate for anything ever again.”
Miranda shouted, “You always take her side! God! She’s wallowing, Mom. She needs to—”
“She’s grieving,” Susan cut in, her voice sharp as glass. “And she’ll grieve at her own pace. What you did today was heartless. I won’t allow it.”
Then she turned to me. Her voice softened.
“Go home, sweetheart. I’ll deal with this.”
I stood up, my legs weak. “Thank you,” I whispered, then walked out the door.
The drive home was silent, but my thoughts were loud. I kept replaying everything. I had always known Miranda could be selfish, but this? This was something else entirely.
And Susan? She had always been more distant than warm. But today, she defended me like I was her own daughter.
Peter once told me how their mom had changed after their dad died. She’d had to stay strong—for him and Miranda. No time to fall apart. Maybe that’s why she understood me now.
That night, I sat in Peter’s favorite chair with a cup of cold coffee. My phone buzzed.
A text from Miranda:
Thanks for turning my own mother against me. I hope you’re happy. And next time, maybe don’t make everything about you.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over a reply. But I had nothing left to say.
I deleted the message and turned my phone to silent.
I was still broken. Still drowning. But I remembered something Peter once told me whenever I felt like I had to keep people happy:
“Some people love you only when you’re useful, Kate. The rest? They love you just because you’re you.”
Susan didn’t love me for what I could do. She loved me because I was Peter’s. Because I hurt. Because she understood. Because she cared.
And for the first time in three weeks, I didn’t feel completely alone.
