Chapter Two
889 Words
Ninety-two days after Tomas died, people stopped asking how I was.
At first, everyone asked.
Neighbours. Friends. Parents at school drop-off. The woman at the pharmacy. The cashier in Tesco.
They all lowered their voices when they spoke to me.
Tilted their heads.
Touched my arm.
How are you?
What they really meant was:
Are you surviving?
The answer was always the same.
“I’m okay.”
A lie became easier every time I told it.
Ninety-two days later, everyone had gone back to their lives.
Except me.
The alarm goes off at six thirty.
For a few seconds, I lie still.
The room is dark.
Quiet.
And in those few seconds between sleep and waking, everything is normal.
Then I roll over.
The other side of the bed is empty.
And I remember.
The grief isn’t sharp anymore.
Not most days.
It’s heavier than that.
Like carrying a suitcase nobody else can see.
You learn how to walk with it.
You learn how to smile with it.
You learn how to answer emails and buy groceries and stand in school pickup lines with it.
But it’s always there.
Waiting.
“Mammy!”
Sofia’s voice travels upstairs.
“I’m hungry!”
I close my eyes.
Another day begins.
“Coming!”
I force myself out of bed.
The floor is cold beneath my feet.
I pull on leggings and the oversized grey hoodie hanging from the back of the chair.
Tomas’s hoodie.
I tell myself it’s because it’s comfortable.
Not because it still smells faintly like him if I bury my face in the collar.
Downstairs, Sofia is already sitting at the kitchen table.
Colouring.
There are pink markers scattered everywhere.
The kitchen looks like a glitter factory exploded.
“Morning, baby.”
“Morning.”
She’s concentrating hard.
Tongue sticking out slightly.
Just like Tomas used to when he was trying to assemble furniture.
The thought hits me out of nowhere.
I reach for the kettle.
“Daddy hated glitter.”
I freeze.
There it is.
The landmine.
Three months later and they’re still everywhere.
Songs.
Smells.
Supermarkets.
Cartoons.
One sentence can ruin an otherwise decent morning.
“He did,” I say.
“He said it got everywhere.”
Sofia giggles.
A real giggle.
Not the careful little smiles she’d worn after the funeral.
For a second, I just listen.
The sound feels like sunlight after weeks of rain.
Then guilt arrives right behind it.
Because part of me is relieved.
Relieved that she’s laughing.
Relieved that she’s healing.
Relieved that she isn’t carrying the same weight I am.
My phone vibrates on the counter.
I ignore it.
The kettle begins to boil.
The phone vibrates again.
Then again.
Email.
Email.
Email.
Work.
The business has survived ninety-two days without me.
It can survive one more.
The screen lights up again.
This time it’s a call.
Christopher.
I stare at his name.
The kettle clicks off.
The kitchen suddenly feels too quiet.
“Are you going to answer?”
I look at Sofia.
She shrugs.
Children make everything sound simple.
I haven’t spoken to Christopher properly since the funeral.
A few emails.
A few signatures.
That’s all.
The phone keeps ringing.
Part of me wants to let it go to voicemail.
The other part knows that if Christopher is calling, something needs my attention.
Unfortunately.
I swipe the screen.
“Hello?”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then:
“Emily.”
His voice sounds exactly the same.
And somehow that annoys me.
“Christopher.”
“We need to talk about something.”
Of course we do.
I close my eyes.
The suitcase gets heavier.
“What happened?”
“It’s not bad,” he says quickly.
A pause.
“At least I don’t think it’s bad.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
To my surprise, he laughs.
A short laugh.
The kind people make when they’re relieved the other person hasn’t hung up.
And just like that, something shifts.
Not much.
Just enough to remind me that life keeps moving whether I’m ready for it or not.
“I need you to come into the office.”
There it is.
The sentence I’ve spent ninety-two days avoiding.
I look across the kitchen.
At Sofia.
At the drawings.
At the life I’ve built inside these walls.
Safe.
Small.
Manageable.
The office belongs to another version of me.
The version that still had a husband.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Emily.”
I hate the way he says my name.
Patient.
Reasonable.
As though he’s already expecting resistance.
“I said I’ll think about it.”
Another pause.
Then:
“Tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”
“Was that a request?”
“No.”
For the first time in ninety-two days, I almost smile.
Almost.
“I’ll see.”
I end the call before he can say anything else.
Sofia looks up from her colouring.
“Do you have to go to work?”
I look at the phone still sitting on the counter.
Then at the front door.
Then at the life I’ve been hiding inside for three months.
“Maybe.”
But even as I say it, I know.
Tomorrow at ten o’clock, I’ll be walking back into a world I haven’t been brave enough to face.
And nothing about that feels okay.
- Writer
