After the funeral, I drove him home and sat with him on the porch while the casseroles piled up inside.
« It’s going to be different now, » he told me, looking out at the empty yard. « But I’ll figure it out. People have it worse. »
That was Grandpa.
He was always comparing someone else’s pain to shrink his own.
The first birthday without her was the hardest.
He pretended it wasn’t, of course. He baked his own cake from a box mix and laughed about how lopsided it came out.
Only my parents and I came that year.
Aunt Linda had a cold.
Uncle Greg was working.
Aunt Linda’s daughter, Jenna, sent a card three days late.
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