"We Need to Talk About Next Steps"
The morning after the funeral, I made coffee for two.
I didn't realize what I was doing until I placed a second cup on the counter.
For a moment, I just stared at it.
Then I poured it down the sink.
That small act nearly broke me.
The house was painfully quiet.
My husband's chair sat exactly where he'd left it. His reading glasses were still on the end table. A newspaper he'd started reading remained folded beside them.
Everything looked normal.
Everything except him.
I was standing at the kitchen window when my son walked into the dining room carrying his laptop.
He opened it on the table we'd bought nearly thirty years earlier.
My daughter sat beside him.
Neither one asked how I'd slept.
Neither asked whether I'd eaten.
My son cleared his throat.
"Mom, we need to talk about next steps."
I remember those words because they sounded so cold.
Next steps.
Not "How are you?"
Not "We're here for you."
Not even "Dad would want us to take care of you."
Just next steps.
I looked at both of them.
"What kind of next steps?"
My daughter exchanged a glance with her brother.
Then she said, "Everything has to be organized."
"Everything?"
"The house. The business. The accounts. Insurance. Taxes. All of it."
I nodded slowly.
"Your father and I had a plan."
My son leaned back.
"I know, Mom. But things are different now."
That sentence should have frightened me.
Instead, it made me suspicious.
