The first few weeks were unbearable.
The kids cried at night. Lily stopped eating. Ben wet the bed for the first time in years.
I was drowning. My pension wasn’t enough to support all of us. So I had to go back to work.
At 71, nobody wanted to hire me. But I found a job at a diner on Route 9. I wiped down tables, washed dishes, and took orders. And in the evenings, I’d knit scarves and hats to sell at the weekend market for extra money.
It wasn’t glamorous. But it paid enough to keep us afloat.
At 71, nobody wanted to hire me.Every morning, I’d drop the three older kids at school and Rosie at daycare. Then I’d work until 2 p.m. Pick them up. Make dinner. Help with homework. And read bedtime stories.
Six months passed like that. Slowly, painfully, we started to find a rhythm. But the grief never left. It just learned how to sit quietly in the corner.
I told myself every day that I was doing enough. That keeping them fed and safe was enough.
But deep down, I wondered if I was failing my grandchildren.
The grief never left.
