The gravel beneath my funeral shoes seemed to crunch louder than it should have.
I stood beside the road, holding my handbag against my chest, and watched my son’s SUV disappear into the distance.
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
The vehicle grew smaller, passed the bend, and finally vanished beyond the cornfields.
He never looked back.
Neither did my daughter.
That was the moment I realized something I had been refusing to admit since my husband died.
My children hadn't come home to help me grieve.
They had come home to settle an estate.
And apparently, in their minds, I were part of the estate that needed to be dealt with.
Three days earlier, I had been standing beside my husband's grave.
People surrounded me with flowers, casseroles, hugs, and well-meaning words.
"He was a good man."
"He lived a full life."
"At least he isn't suffering anymore."
I knew people meant well.
But none of those sentences could fill the empty space beside me.
My husband had been my companion for more than four decades. We had raised children together, survived lean years, built a business from practically nothing, paid a mortgage, repaired roofs, celebrated birthdays, argued over silly things, made up, and grown old together.
Then, suddenly, he was gone.
And before I had even figured out how to sleep on my own side of the bed, my children were talking about paperwork.
