After my husband’s death, I moved in with my mother-in-law for the sake of my daughter. I thought we could support each other in our grief—until I overheard her whisper to my child, “I’ll take you from her.” That was the moment I knew I had to fight.
I stood at the edge of the grave with my daughter in my arms, her tiny hands fisted in the collar of my coat. The wind swept through the cemetery, pulling at my clothes, but I barely felt it.
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My whole body was numb. Somewhere behind me, the priest was speaking, but his voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a well.
The coffin had already been lowered into the ground. I stared at it, and all I could think about was how much I wanted to lie down there beside it. Beside him.
Eric. He was gone. The man I had built my life with, laughed with, argued with, cried with, raised a daughter with. The man I loved more than anyone else in the world.
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And now the world kept spinning without him, as if he hadn’t just taken my heart with him into that hole in the ground. But I couldn’t fall apart. I couldn’t lie down.
I had to remain upright, arms strong, body steady — for the little girl clinging to me, who had just lost her father.