After my husband’s funeral, I leaned in and whispered, “My water just broke.” His mother curled her lip and said, “We’re grieving. Call a taxi yourself.” His brother added under his breath, “Not tonight.” So I called one. By myself. Twelve days later, she stood at my door and said, “I’ve come to see my grandchild.” I answered, “Which grandchild?”
The first contraction struck as they lowered my husband into the earth. The next came when his mother glanced at me and said, “Don’t make today about you.”
Rain streaked down black umbrellas like ink running loose. I held the edge of Samuel’s coffin so tightly my knuckles blanched. I was nine months pregnant, widowed for three days, surrounded by people already carving my life into portions.
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