Widowhood is a thousand practical tasks with a scream under them. The grocery store is full of items that still belong to a life with two adults making plans. The kids ask normal questions in voices that make my ribs hurt. I can keep the bills paid or I can breathe deeply, but not both on the same day. Sometimes grief looks like school pickup and pretending my face is not breaking in public. I am angry at every healthy person talking to me about efficiency. The old version of me is buried in this somewhere too.
The Wall
Safety and moderation
This space is moderated for safety. Posts encouraging harm, abuse, harassment, doxxing, or graphic content may be removed.
If you may harm yourself or someone else, contact local emergency services or 988 in the U.S.