I thought I would collapse onto the kitchen floor, clutching the red and green dish towel, sobbing beside the apple pie I had baked for a Christmas morning that no longer existed.
But grief did not come like that.
It came quietly.
It came in the hum of the refrigerator.
In the glow of the Christmas tree reflecting against the dark window.
In the ridiculous neatness of the wrapped gifts beneath it.
One for Trent.
One for me.
One for the life I thought we still had.
I stood in the kitchen for almost an hour after he walked out. The house felt too warm, too decorated, too full of things pretending nothing had changed.
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