My mom had barely been gone a month when my stepdad told me he was marrying her best friend. That alone felt like a crack through my chest, but what truly broke me came afterward.
The house still felt like Mom. Her reading glasses sat on the coffee table, her crocheted blanket rested on her chair, and the faint scent of rosemary oil lingered in the air. Her slippers were by the bed, her favorite mug still untouched.
Cancer hadn’t taken her all at once. It stole her slowly over eight months—her strength, her hair, her ability to pretend she was okay. Some days she laughed about old memories; other days she stared out the window like she was already leaving.