I buried my husband on a cold Tuesday.
Nine days later, my son walked into my living room, placed three animal cages on my rug, handed me a bag of food, and told me I would be taking care of everything while he and his wife went to the Bahamas.
He didn’t ask whether I was ready.
He didn’t ask how I was coping.
He didn’t even ask whether I had slept.
His wife, Chloe, barely said hello.
She simply pushed the cages farther into the room and said, “The instructions are in the bag.”
I looked at the three animals.
Then I looked at my son.
And I smiled.
They had no idea that by sunrise, I would be gone.
Not for a weekend.
Not for a few days.
For nearly an entire year.
And they had no idea that my departure would force them to confront something they had avoided for years: I was their mother, not their unpaid servant.
My husband, Ernest, died on a cold, cloudy Tuesday.
I buried him wearing his favorite white linen shirt. His rosary rested between his hands, and I tucked a photograph from our old Key West vacation inside his jacket pocket.
