I stood in my bedroom folding clothes, still learning how to live with the quiet absence my mother had left behind. Three months had passed since her death, yet grief had a way of returning in ordinary moments, making familiar rooms feel unfamiliar.
My five-year-old son, Leo, wandered in with dried silver paint covering his hands. Before I could ask about it, my husband, Mark, smiled and explained that it was from an art project.
Something about his answer felt hurried.
A little later, he left on what he described as an errand. It was a Wednesday morning, only a few days before our tenth wedding anniversary, and he seemed unusually cheerful despite everything our family had been carrying.
That afternoon, I went upstairs to put away some towels in the guest room.
The door was locked.
When I asked Mark about it later, he simply told me not to worry and changed the subject.
Perhaps under different circumstances I would have accepted the explanation.
But grief often unsettles our sense of certainty, and small mysteries can begin to feel much larger than they really are.