The little girl survived.
My husband didn’t.
People called him a hero after that. The news stations talked about courage and sacrifice. Fire trucks lined the streets during the funeral while strangers saluted as the procession passed.
But after the cameras disappeared and the casseroles stopped arriving, reality settled over our house like dust.
It was just Andrew and me.
And grief.
Grief sitting at the dinner table.
Grief sleeping in our hallway.
Grief hiding inside every quiet moment.
Andrew changed after his father died.
Not loudly.
That was the heartbreaking part.
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